


Ripples on a Black Shore

by Mugatu



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, Multi, bad stuff might happen to the dog, but she doesn't die, happy by TWD standards at least, in case anyone was worried, no I am not sorry about it, puppies are serious business and I don't play about stuff like that, seriously folks the dog doesn't die, the dog doesn't die, the one where they met before the apocalypse, yes I stole ideas from "Fear the Walking Dead"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2018-10-11 06:28:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 200,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10457511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mugatu/pseuds/Mugatu
Summary: For Daryl Dixon the world ended days before it did for almost everyone else, and it was heralded with a prerecorded phone message instead of a bang.An AU fic where Daryl met Paul several years before the apocalypse.





	1. Daryl: Part 1

(awesome art by [darylfever](http://darylfever.tumblr.com))

 

For Daryl Dixon the world ended days before it did for almost everyone else, and it was heralded with a prerecorded phone message instead of a bang.

He spent most of that day on the phone calling airline after airline while keeping a nervous eye on the news. At midday he took a break to visit the Walmart, where he maxed out one of their credit cards in order to load up on supplies. Canned goods, large sacks of dried dog food, bottled water, batteries, camping gear, he was barely able to fit all of it into the bed of the truck. He got a few stares from folks but he didn’t give a shit, didn’t give a shit if he was being paranoid or ridiculous. What had been shown on the news was scary as fuck and he wasn’t taking any chances.

 _When Paul gets home we can head up to the mountains somewhere and wait for this shit to blow over,_ Daryl thought to himself as he drove his haul back home. His eye kept being drawn to his hands gripping the steering wheel and to the ring finger of his left one where a crude winged skull was tattooed in black ink. _Remember that you are going to die._ He swallowed hard and forced his eyes back on the road.

When he got home Daryl was greeted by the sound of Lou barking her damn head from the backyard. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, Lou hardly _ever_ barked, and when she did it was because she was excited about something. Paul liked to joke that the “Warning: Pit bull” sign on the front gate was a mockery and she would probably show any burglars the valuables in exchange for ear scratches.

He wouldn’t make that joke now, Lou sounded truly savage and when Daryl reached the backyard she looked like she had lost her damn mind. She wasn’t just barking, she was hurling herself against the wooden privacy fence that separated their property from Neighbor Dan’s.

“Lou!” Daryl hollered, “Hell’s gotten into you, girl?”

She paused her maddened attack against the fence when she heard his voice, looking over her shoulder at him with her ears cocked. Then she turned back to the fence, her fawn-colored fur sticking up along her spine.

“C’mon inside!” he said, slapping his hand against his thigh, “C’mon girl!” She didn’t budge other than one ear flicking back toward him. He called her several more times with the same result, even the magic word of “dinner” failed to move her. Daryl uneasily crossed the yard and leaned down to grab her collar. At his touch she looked up at him and whined softly before going back to staring at the fence.

As he started to pull her away without warning Daryl’s pulse slammed in his temples and he felt a surge of adrenaline. There was someone on the other side of the fence, he could sense it before he heard the light scraping of nails against wood.

“Dan? That you?” Daryl called out, scolding himself for his jumpiness. There was no reply, just that whispery noise of fingers against wood. Lou started to growl low in her throat. Daryl took a step back, eyeing the top of the fence. It was about six and a half feet high, he could pull himself up easily and look over, see what had the dog in a state.

Before he could the phone in his front pocket buzzed, knocking away any other thought or consideration. He pulled it out quickly—he didn’t recognize the number but did recognize the Chicago area code. He turned from the fence and flipped his phone open.

“Hello?”

“Thank fuck,” a familiar voice said without even a _hello._

 _“_ Paul,” Daryl said, sagging with relief, “What the fuck is happening?”

“I got a flight; it’s about to start boarding. Should get to Atlanta around nine thirty. Ticket cost me an arm and a leg, hope you don’t mind putting off getting that bike for another year.”

Daryl let out a low, whistling breath, “I don’t give a fuck if you had to sign the deed to the house over. Just get here, ok? This shit is _bad_.”

“I’m working on it,” Paul replied. He quickly gave Daryl his flight information then said, “I’m so glad I got ahold of you, cell phone’s are down here. I’m calling from an honest-to-god _payphone._ One I waited in line three hours to use.”

“Ok,” Daryl said, “I can come to Atlanta to get you-“

“Don’t do that! Stay in the house with Lou, I’ll come to you.”

“Ain’t happenin’,” Daryl said, “How the hell are you supposed to get here? Groome ain’t gonna be running. And forget about renting a fucking car.”

“ _Daryl,_ ” Paul said sharply, “The last I saw traffic getting _into_ the city was the problem, even if you left right now you probably would just be sitting there stuck long after I landed.”

Daryl was quiet for several heartbeats. He was already starting to get antsy, knowing that Paul had finally gotten a fucking flight and would there in a matter of hours. He wanted to jump in the truck right that second, if he got stuck in traffic he would just _walk_ to the airport. He looked down to where Lou was still pacing back and forth, occasionally looking at the fence and whining.

Paul spoke, “Please Daryl, I want to know where you are and that I can get in touch with you.”

“Fine, I’ll wait,” Daryl agreed reluctantly. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, “I shoulda come with you. I’m sorry. You were right, I was bein’ a pussy.”

There was a silence on the other end of the line, except for Paul’s breathing. Then in a voice barely above a whisper said, “Don’t. I should have cancelled the trip when you said you couldn’t come. I was just being stubborn.”

“Ain’t we a pair,” Daryl replied.

Paul chuckled weakly, then said, “My flight’s about to board. I’ll be there in a couple of hours if it leaves on time, I’ll call you when I land.”

“Ok. Hey Paul?”

“Yeah?”

Daryl meant to tell him to be careful, but to his surprise what came out was, “I love you.”

That shocked Paul into silence. Four years together and Daryl could use his fingers to count the times they’d said those words to each other. Neither one of them was big on verbal displays of affection, preferring action to demonstrate their feelings.

“I love you too,” Paul answered finally, his voice unsteady, “I’ll see you soon, ok?”

Later Daryl would think that had he known this would be their last conversation— that hours later a prerecorded message would be saying _no survivors—_ he probably wouldn’t have said anything different.

******

Daryl pushed the end call button and returned his phone to his pocket. Lou had calmed down a bit but her fur was still standing on end and she kept staring at the fence. Daryl followed her gaze, listening for a few seconds. It was silent, whoever had been standing on the other side of the fence was gone.

He still had to drag Lou back to the house by her collar, when they got inside he made sure to lock the doggie door so she couldn’t go charging out. Once she realized she was trapped in the house she didn’t calm down, just paced restlessly from room to room. She was quiet though, and that was good enough for Daryl.

He couldn’t just make himself relax, so he turned the TV on to the news and cranked up the volume. While Daryl listened to the updates on the “situation” he packed a bag for him and another for Paul. He loaded them up with a change of clothes, plastic bags, hunting knives, maps, a first aid kit, and as much food as he could. In addition to the canned shit he bought earlier he had pounds of homemade venison jerky in the freezer, Paul hated it but it would keep for a long time.

When he finished with their bags he dug out Lou’s doggie backpack and started filling it up as well. The bright orange monstrosity only came out when they went on a camping trip or an all day hike, and the sight of it was usually enough to make her flip her shit. Running from room to room and jumping like a maniac was her typical response. But this time all Daryl got was a momentary perk of her ears and a brief tail wag, before she went back to her restless pacing. She would hunch by her doggie door and whine, shadow Daryl for a bit as he gathered up supplies or go to the computer room to look for Paul.“He ain’t back yet,” Daryl told her. She cocked her head at the sound of his voice and whimpered, “Yeah girl, I know. Me too,” Daryl said, “Soon.”

Packing didn’t eat up nearly as much time as he would have liked. He watched the news for a bit; a traffic report came on showing a helicopter’s view of 85. Even at this hour the southbound lanes toward the city looked like a parking lot, and the side of the road was littered with abandoned vehicles. The reporter said this had been going on for nearly eight hours. Paul was right, there would be no way in hell Daryl would be able to get into the city. Northbound looked clear, however. If Paul got a ride he could be at the house by midnight. Hell, if he couldn’t find a ride then Daryl would tell him to just steal a damn car out of longterm parking. Paul remembered enough of his juvenile delinquent skills to be able to hotwire a car and Daryl had a feeling police would be too busy for the next however long to come looking for him. He wanted Paul here _now,_ wanted to haul ass up to the mountains far away from all of this shit and lay low until everything blew over.

 _Soon,_ he told himself. They could leave early in the morning, before dawn. Paul just needed to get home first. He took out his phone to check the time; a little past eight. He just needed to wait.

******

Daryl would sometimes wonder just how his life would have turned out if Merle hadn’t gotten popped for running meth down into Athens. If Merle had avoided jail and Daryl was still living under his thumb. If he hadn’t gotten into an accident after visiting his brother in prison and nearly died. He totaled his bike and ended up with a concussion, two broken ribs, a collapsed lung, a fractured femur, and a bill from the hospital that approached six figures. But he would never have met Paul otherwise, and up until the world ended he would have said it was a small price to pay for that.

The accident happened a little more than four years before the end of the world. He left Athens and was heading north on Highway 441 when an eye-searingly yellow Dodge Ram whipped around him doing well over eighty-five and sideswiped his bike. The prick who hit him (Denny St George, a spoiled college brat who had been drinking and was afraid of getting in trouble with his father, Daryl would later find out) didn’t even slow down. Daryl ended up crumpled in a ditch by the side of the road with his leg twisted up underneath him and blood in his mouth. When he tried to move a lightning hot burst of pain shot up his leg and the world went black.

When he came to he was staring up into the most beautiful pair of eyes he’d ever seen. “Am I dead?” he slurred out. He was pretty sure he was. The guy leaning over him looked like he’d walked out of the billboard a mile from his house; the one with Jesus standing with arms outstretched on a fiery battlefield declaring he was still in control.

“I sure fucking hope not,” the Jesus-look-alike said, “Can you feel your legs?”

As soon as he spoke Daryl realized he could in fact feel his legs. This was not as much as a relief as it should have been under the circumstances; one was in agony from his hip down to his ankle and it felt like half the skin had been torn off from the other one. He moaned weakly and tried to push himself up only for Jesus to press his hand against his chest and say, “Hey man, don’t try to move.”

“Fuck you, Jesus,” he muttered, but pain made him comply. His chest hurt, his head hurt, and his leg _really_ fucking hurt. He shivered, he had a battered overcoat thrown over him but it did fuck all to dispel the chill.

“Hey, it’s gonna be ok. What’s your name?”

“Daryl,” he answered, “Daryl Dixon.”

“Ok Daryl,” Jesus said, “I just called 911 on my cell, an ambulance should be here any minute. Plus I got enough of that son of a bitch’s license plate number for the pigs to track him down.”

“You’re alright, Jesus,” Daryl mumbled, “ _Fuck,”_ he said, and started coughing. He could taste more blood, his chest felt all broken and _wrong._ “I think I’m dying.”

“No,” Jesus said, and grabbed Daryl’s hand, “Just keep talking to me. Where do you live?”

“Bought forty miles north a’here,” he answered.

“Wife? Girlfriend? Anyone you need me to call?”

“No. Just Merle,” Daryl coughed out, “M’brother.”

“Do you know his number?”

“He’s in Clarke county jail at the moment,” Daryl said, “Was comin’ back from a visit.”

“I’ll get in touch with him later,” Jesus promised.

“Cops…won’t…need to track that asshole down. Merle will probably punch his way out and get him hisself…” The world was starting to go fuzzy and grey.

Jesus was leaning over him, mouth moving but Daryl couldn’t make out the words. Everything _hurt,_ it was starting to drown the rest of the world out.

Time seemed to skip then, only bits and flashes came after that. Jesus and his pretty eyes were replaced by the faces of paramedics leaning in and asking him the same damn questions Jesus had already asked—“Yes I can feel my fucking leg, it fucking HURTS!”

Another skip, and he was in the back of an ambulance and absolutely nothing hurt. There was a plastic brace around his neck and an oxygen mask over his face and he felt fantastic. He was still pretty sure that he was dying but it didn’t really seem like that big of a deal. Except for having to look at the paramedics, the view was a little lacking. He reached up and tugged the oxygen mask down and asked, “Where did Jesus go?” If he was going to die then he didn’t want to look at the pimply face of this paramedic while he did it.

“Jesus?” Pimple-face asked, “Are you religious?”

“He’s talking about me,” a voice interrupted, and Daryl tried to focus. Jesus was in the ambulance; sat across from him out of the way of the paramedics. He leaned in and took Daryl’s hand again. “The name’s Paul, actually,” he said, “Paul Rovia.”

“Oh,” Daryl said, “You’ve got pretty eyes. What color are they?” He couldn’t really tell; they made him think a little of the sea glass his mother used to keep in a dish on the coffee table.

“Blue or green,” Paul said and a quick smile flashed across his face, “Whichever you prefer.”

Daryl hummed a little, “Green, I think,” he decided.

“They gave you the good drugs, I see,” Jesus- _Paul_ said with another smile.

Daryl wouldn’t be able to admit to himself or anyone else for an entire year that it was a lot more than the drugs.

******

Nine thirty came and went. Daryl checked his phone obsessively—no calls, no texts. Maybe cell service was down in Atlanta as well. He checked the news—traffic was still a tangled snarl, newscasters were discussing whether the president was about to call a state of emergency, send the national guard to certain cities.

An hour passed, then another. Daryl tried logging on to the airport website to see if the flight had landed on time, but there at the top of the page in giant red letters was an announcement that flight tracking was down.

 _Fucking hell, Paul,_ Daryl thought to himself. He cursed himself for letting Paul talk him out of going to the airport, Daryl could have taken his bike instead of the truck and just weaved through traffic. Or gone overland. It was too late for that now, what if Paul was on his way and Daryl missed him?

Daryl couldn’t sit still, he got up and paced through the house, looking for anything to keep his mind occupied. There were a few repairs he’d been meaning to do and hadn’t gotten around to. A leaky faucet, a busted door jamb, a loose floor board. He had the news on the entire evening, volume cranked up so he could hear it anywhere in the house. After a while he stopped really registering what was being said. It was all a distant blur of stunned horror. The buzzing of a fridge. Until after midnight when the words “ _Multiple plane crashes across the country, one in Los Angeles, another in southern Indiana…_ ” penetrated Daryl’s fog of distraction.

Daryl froze, a cold wall slamming around his heart. He sprinted to the living room, the newscaster was droning on about something else, Daryl let out a frustrated noise and grabbed the remote, flipping through the channels.

_A mass riot in Detroit today-_

_A man in Los Angeles started attacking people—_

_A strange flu sweeping the nation—_

_Just hours after True West Airlines Flight 462 went down over Los Angeles, Delta Flight 614 went down just south of Evansville—_

Daryl felt himself go numb. The television showed images of burning wreckage, a massive orange fire ball. Daryl watched in horror, feeling his gorge rise. He wanted to tell himself he was misremembering the flight info Paul had given him earlier, but he remembered it exactly. Delta, flight number 614, coming from Midway and arriving at Hartsfield at 9:30.

Everything felt slow and syrupy, like this was a nightmare he would soon wake up from. He hit mute on the remote and stood in front of the television unmoving for some unknown amount of time. Then he shook himself and staggered for the house phone.

**********

Daryl found out Paul was dead via a prerecorded message.

It was nearly two in the morning, he had been calling the airline and both airports trying to get some information on what had happened ever since he saw the news report. The past few hours were a blur of robot voices telling him to hold, that phone lines were down, that all service representatives were currently helping other customers, please call back. 

Then the final robot voice calmly telling him that the world had ended: _Flight 614 went down tonight at 8:30 pm over southern Indiana. There were no survivors. Call this number for more information._

The recording started rattling out a few numbers but Daryl couldn’t hear them. He had to replay the message again. His fingers shook so bad he could hardly push the numbers into the phone. The second time the message played the shock was wearing off and what the words actually meant started to sink in.

Feeling like his hands belonged to someone else he dialed the number. The phone rang, and a robot’s voice told him to please hold. Music started playing, a jarringly jaunty saxophone number.

It ended, a robot voice thanked him for holding, then after a beat of silence the song started again.

Daryl soon lost count of how many times the song replayed itself. He felt frozen in time, in some weird Purgatory. Lou came in at one point, whined, and put her paw on his foot. He realized he hadn’t fed her that night, she’d been too agitated when he got home, then his mind got occupied with other things.

He put the phone on speaker and walked into the kitchen cradling it against his chest.

_Thank you for holding. All our customer service associates are busy. Please wait, and your call will be answered in the order it was received._

The plastic bin they kept Lou’s dried dog food was empty. Of course it was, he had gone out earlier to stock up on dog food and everything else. The bag was still in the truck. He walked mechanically to the cupboard and started rooting around for a can of the wet food. After he found it he searched for a can opener for several moments before realizing that it was a can with one of those pull tabs.

The smell of the wet food hit him and his stomach rolled. He held his breath and spooned out the food into Lu’s bowl. She started tearing into it before Daryl finished, slurping and gulping in a way that made him feel nauseous again.

He tossed the can in the trash bin beneath the sink then sat down at the kitchen table to wait. 

_Thank you for holding. All our customer service associates are busy. Please wait, and your call will be answered in the order-_

The message cut off abruptly, and at first Daryl thought he had been disconnected when an actual human’s voice filled his ears, “Thank you for calling Delta Customer Service. This is Jenny, how may I be of assistance?” If Daryl hadn’t been so keyed up himself he would have noticed just how scared Jenny from Customer Service sounded.

For a second Daryl couldn’t think of how to be begin. Everything felt fuzzy and like a bad dream. He cleared his throat and said, “My…my _partner_ ,“ Daryl almost said boyfriend, he hated that word but he hated “partner” even more. People seemed to take it more seriously, however, “He…he was on that flight. Flight 614,” Daryl was shaking, “There was a recording, said to call this number.”

“I…I’m sorry, there was a _recording?”_ Daryl finally took notice of the fear in her voice.

“Yeah, been callin’ for hours and you’re the first person I’ve spoken to,” he said. He could hear the fear in his own voice, “Said to call this number. He was on that plane, I need…” The words _no survivors_ flashed through his mind, “Did anyone make it?”

There was a silence on the other end of the line, then, “Sir, we are not giving that information out, the families of the passengers need to be contacted-“

Something in Daryl snapped free. The numb unreality of the past few hours vanished and a was replaced by a thundering rage, “ _I’m_ his goddamned family!” he shouted, “He ain’t got no one else! You mean to say with all this SHIT going down you can’t tell me if he’s…” Daryl couldn’t finish. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Lou was cringing away from him, tail between her legs and ears flat.

Jenny the customer service associate was quiet for so long after his outburst that for a moment Daryl thought she’d hung up. “Sir, do you mind holding?”

“Just…fucking… _tell me,”_ Daryl’s voice broke.

“Sir, I have no way of looking that information up. I’m going to speak to my supervisor and see what I can do. If you can give me your number I can call you back—“

“I can hold,” Daryl said, “Just don’t put that fucking music on again.”

“It’s automatic, I can’t control it,” Jenny the customer service associate told him, “I’ll be as fast as I can.”

As fast as she could turned out to be nearly twenty minutes. Daryl was only vaguely aware of time passing. Part of him wanted to hang up, Paul couldn’t be dead if no one ever told him.

There was a click on the other end of the line, “Sir? I’m going to transfer you,” she said.

Daryl didn’t have long to wait before another voice spoke. It was an older man this time, his voice was grave and terrified. He listened when Daryl told him who he was and why he was calling.

“Sir, normally…” He cleared his throat, “Normally you would have been contacted by someone before now. I have no idea why there was a recording, things are…the current situation…is…” he trailed off, then, “I’m going to tell you this because right now…I can’t guarantee that we’ll be able to send anyone for the foreseeable future,” Daryl realized that unlike Jenny this guy wasn’t scared, he’d gone beyond that, there was a bald terror in his voice, “Sir, all passengers on flight 614 died on impact,” he said, “Your partner, Mr Rovia, was on the passenger manifest list,” he paused, then in a very quiet voice said, “I’m so very sorry.”

He had more to say. Details on who to contact, see about identifying any remains. He repeated that the “current situation” was affecting the normal procedures of the airline. Daryl barely heard him, nothing else really mattered after that final, horrible confirmation. He didn’t bother writing any of the numbers down, and after a bit just hung up the phone. He let it fall to the table, where it landed with a clunk.

 _So that was it then_ , Daryl thought, _he’s dead_. Paul was dead. His mind couldn’t accept it, no matter how often he mentally repeated the words. The idea was laughable, he’d just talked to him on the phone a few hours ago.

The world had gone muted, colors and sounds coming in through a cotton filter. Lou whined on the floor, sensing his distress. He reached down and patted her absently, staring around at the kitchen. There were plates in the sink he hadn’t gotten around to washing. He’d meant to, Paul hated coming home to a dirty kitchen. He usually did most of the cooking, Daryl’s job was cleaning up after.

It hit him then, the full force of it. Paul was dead. He wasn’t coming back. He’d never bitch about dirty dishes in the kitchen sink again. Never do anything again; never smile at him, never shove his icy cold feet against Daryl’s legs in the middle of the night, never sit with him in the backyard sipping beers on a summer evening.

It was like a physical blow. Daryl got clumsily to his feet, not sure where he wanted to go or why. He took a few aimless steps away from the table before his legs gave out. He slumped over, clutching at his hair and whimpering. Lou came over and whined, licking at his face. He shoved her away. She curled in on herself, head hung low. The sight of her caused something in him to break, she didn’t know. He couldn’t tell her that Paul was never coming back.

“Fuck,” Daryl said. He buried his face in his hands while sobs of grief escaped him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm hoping to update this weekly; we'll see how that goes. 
> 
> The prerecorded message thing was based off an actual story I read while researching airplane crashes; a man being informed of his daughter's death via an answering machine message prior to airline regulations about notifying next of kin. On the verge of the zombie apocalypse stuff tends to break down. 
> 
> Their dog looks like this: http://tinypic.com/r/1z6gjl1/9


	2. Paul: Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah please note the "canon-typical violence" tag.

The first things Paul Rovia became aware of when consciousness returned to him was the sound of a shrieking baby followed by the smells of cooking meat and smoke. When he opened his eyes he could see very little, it was dark but for a flickering light obscured by smoke. His thoughts were slow and syrupy, he couldn’t remember where he was or what he was doing. His head pounded and his hair was wet and sticky. He reached his hand up and touched his scalp lightly, which caused a flare of pain.When he lowered his fingers he saw they were streaked with blood, in the dim light it looked black.

_Where am I,_ he thought. The scent of smoke was worse, acrid and heavy and breathing in caused his throat and chest to burn. He became more aware of his surroundings, noticing he was strapped to a seat, ahead of him was another seat with words _Tray table must be upright and locked during takeoff and landing_.

It came back to him then. The frantic hours bouncing between O’Hare and Midway trying to find something, anything, that would get him to Atlanta. Finally getting a flight. He remembered his conversation with Daryl over the phone, remembered boarding the plane, chatting with his seat mate, then…nothing. Blackness.

He swallowed and turned to his side and saw that his seat mate was dead. Her eyes were open staring and her neck tilted at an unnatural angle. He turned away from her. _Mary from Tampa,_ he remembered. He’d liked her; she was a nervous flyer and Paul held her hand during takeoff and a few bits of turbulence. They talked most of the flight, the nervous chatter of two people trying to pretend everything was going to be just fine as soon as they got home. Like him, she had originally been scheduled to leave later in the week but was coming home early. Things were just too crazy right now. She told him about her husband and daughters waiting for her in Tampa, he told her about Daryl and Lou waiting for him in Athens.

Paul took a deep breath, triggering a coughing fit that he thought would never end. He needed to get _out_ of here, the cabin was filling with smoke and he could smell jet fuel, it burned in his lungs and made his eyes water. He tried to push himself upright and couldn’t, for one panicked moment he thought maybe his legs or back were fucked.

_Seatbelt, Rovia._ Oh right. He fumbled at the buckle, his normally clever fingers clumsy and slow. He caught a glimpse of the tattoo on the ring finger of his left hand. He’d only had the little winged skull for a few months, he still wasn’t used to it. _Remember that you are going to die._ Although that reminder was a bit unnecessary at the moment.

The baby screamed again, jolting Paul out of his reverie. He realized he’d been staring at his hand and not moving for god knew how long. He shook his head to clear it, focusing was _hard._ Seatbelt first. _To release pull the tab,_ he remembered from the pre-flight safety demo that he, like all seasoned travelers, could have recited from memory. Once he was able to do that he gripped the the seat in front of him and tried to pull himself to his feet. He nearly fell over onto Mary from Tampa when he did, he hadn’t realized the plane was tilted at a slight angle. He grabbed the seat in front of him with both hands and held tight. He was breathing harshly, sucking in more smoke and he had to bury his face in his elbow and cough explosively. When he was finished his chest was sore and aching along with his throat. He felt dizzy and started to worry that he might just faint.

That was when he felt an icy cold hand grab at his thigh.

It was like being jolted with electricity, when he jerked his head up he saw that Mary from Tampa was moving. Paul stared dumbly at her, she was looking at him and opening and closing her mouth. Her eyes were open and clouded over white and Paul knew she was dead.

She was dead, and she was moving, and Paul was overcome by a horror so complete and visceral it was enough to make the world snap into focus. He jerked away from her, whacking his leg against his armrest and nearly falling over again.

( _Dead dead she was fucking dead)_

She reached out to grab him again, twisting in her seat trying to turn to him, mouth opening and closing. A low, sucking wheeze came from her mouth. Paul let out a disgusted moan and stumbled into the aisle, grabbing at the seats across from him. He was gasping for air, getting nothing but lungs full of black smoke.

He grabbed the collar of his t-shirt and pulled it up over his nose and mouth. Then he looked down at the passenger in the seat he was clinging too. His eyes stared up at Paul in mute appeal, he had been injured, one side of his torso looked crooked and wrong. His seat mate, a young woman with similar enough features that she must have been his daughter, was _eating_ him.

It took Paul a moment to realize that, that she wasn’t bent over his injuries trying to help, that she had ripped open a hole in his gut and was shoving bloody chunks of meat into her mouth.

Paul heard a muffled, panicked whimpering that he realized was coming from his own mouth. The woman lifted her head, her eyes were white and glazed, just like Mary from Tampa’s had been.

She was dead too.

Paul swiveled his head around in horror. Smoke was too thick and it was too dark to see much, but in the glow of the emergency lighting he caught glimpses of some of the passengers. Some were still, and some were moving, and most of the moving ones had those dumb white eyes.

“ _Oh god, oh my god,”_ Paul moaned, horror freezing his muscles. Some crazed part of his mind started to wonder if he actually had died and this was hell. The rest of his brain was three seconds away from blind panic. He needed to get out, needed to get out _now._ In that state he couldn’t remember where the closest emergency exit was, although he could remember perfectly the attendants going over the aircraft’s safety features. _Please take a note of your nearest exit row, and remember that it may be behind you_.

The sound of the baby crying snapped his thoughts in order once again. He jerked his head around, trying to pinpoint where it was coming from. _They were in the exit row,_ Paul remembered. The baby had been screaming its head off during takeoff, Paul had craned his head up over his seat and seen the family a few rows ahead of him by the emergency exit.The mother, a pretty young hispanic woman, was trying to shush the baby and looking around guiltily. On the other side of the baby was an older woman who looked like her mother, taking over shushing duties when her daughter got too frazzled.

Paul staggered toward the sound of the baby, coughing. He had only gone a few steps before he was overcome with dizziness and dropped to his knees, coughing and _coughing._ The floor of the aisle was hot against his knees. He sat hunched over, that rabbity panic starting to set in again. He wasn’t sure if he could get to his feet again, his head was pounding and breathing was getting harder and harder.

In his head a voice that sounded a lot like Daryl’s thundered, _Fucking crawl then, goddamnit!_

Head hung low he did just that. The floor was even hotter against his unprotected hands, almost hot enough to blister. He pushed himself through the pain and dizziness, eyes blurry and burning. He felt hands brush against his back as he crawled down the aisle and each time they did he wanted to scream. He heard more moans and couldn’t tell if they came from the dying or the already dead. The baby’s screams could barely be heard over the noise.

He didn’t realize he had made his way to the exit row until he heard clear as day, “ _Mama! Mama no!”_

He lifted his pounding head; the smoke up here was less thick and he could see much better. What he saw horrified him. In the aisle seat the old woman he remembered cooing over her grandchild earlier was dead. Dead and moving, her mouth twisted into a grotesque snarl. She was holding the chubby flesh of her grandson’s arm and twisting it like a turkey drumstick. On the other side of the baby the mother was awake, one hand holding old woman back by the neck and the other was wrapped around her child, trying to pull him free. The old woman’s teeth gnashed and her fingers clawed at her daughter’s jacket. The young mother screamed again.

Without thinking Paul gathered all his strength and pushed himself to his feet. The world tilted crazily, his light headedness returning. He looked down and saw the young mother’s eyes flick up to him and get even wider. Her hand holding the snarling corpse back faltered. Before it could dig its teeth into the baby Paul reached out and grabbed the dead woman by the hair and jerked its head back.

Paul had been in enough brawls to know that really pulling someone by hair was excruciating, enough to cause most people to freeze momentarily. The old woman just jerked forward with such horrific strength Paul was nearly knocked of his feet. He was only barely able to maintain his grip; he yanked back again, throwing his full weight into it. The corpse snapped its head forward again and there was a tearing noise as a piece of its bloody scalp came clean off in Paul’s hand. He stared at it for a horrified moment, before throwing it aside in disgust.

Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. He watched the corpse lunge for the baby, its lips curled back from its teeth like a dog. The young mother was still trying to hold it back one-handed but her arm was trembling with effort

Paul pushed forward again. This time he wrapped his hands around the front of the corpse’s skull instead. He dug his fingers into her eyes automatically- another habit learned from his street brawling days- and _yanked_ back as hard as he could. The corpse thrashed and its teeth snapped and it was all Paul could do to hold onto it. The skin was slick and clammy, making Paul think of a writhing handful of worms.

“ _Get the baby!”_ Paul shouted unnecessarily, now that she had a hand free the young mother was prying the corpse’s fingers off her son’s arm. As Paul watched she pushed a finger back so hard it snapped. When the baby was free she snatched him up against her chest and started clawing at her seatbelt. Underneath his hand the old woman’s head jerked and thrashed, jaws snapping.Thankfully the young mother was able to unhook her belt and scramble away right before Paul lost his grip.

He barely got away in time himself, the thing that had once been a person had become aware of him at last. It lunged for Paul and he staggered backwards, only managing to stay on his feet because he hit the bulkhead.

The young woman was staring wide-eyed at the snarling thing that had once been her mother, clutching her baby to her chest. She looked dazed, almost like a sleepwalker. Paul stumbled towards her.

“Exit…” he tried to say, but was overcome by a fit of coughing. But thankfully it was enough; she lurched a few feet toward the exit door and started fumbling with the latch one-handed. She couldn’t lift it, her arm was trembling. Paul had to help her, and for a second he didn’t think it would budge when suddenly the hatch went flying open.

The emergency slide inflated with a hideously loud noise that left Paul’s ears ringing.

The woman looked down at the slide in fear, they were a good ten or fifteen feet from the ground. She held her wailing child tight to her chest. She looked up at Paul, and he saw her eyes widen at something over his shoulder.

He whipped around, and through the clouds of smoke saw a few staggering figures coming down the aisle from the bowels of the plane. He could barely make them out, but something about their movements made him certain that they were some of the dead ones.

The young woman must have been certain as well, because she hesitated only an instant before tucking herself around her baby then jumping down the slide.

Paul himself didn’t so much jump as fall over and out. There was a crazy, funhouse moment where he zipped down. Then he felt ground hit his feet and jolt caused him to double over, coughing and retching.

“Oh my god, they’re coming,” he could hear the young mother whimpering, “Get up, hurry!” He felt her hand tug at his arm.

He lifted his head and looked behind him at the black entrance of aircraft exit, the silvery grey emergency hanging out like a tongue. In the opening he could see the outline of figures moving in those unnatural, jerking movements.

The sight caused a surge of adrenaline that enabled him to get to his feet, lungs screaming in protest. He swayed and almost went down again but her arm was around his waist and she was holding him up. He could hear her baby crying, he wanted to tell her to let go, to run, but her arm was tight and she dragged him along.

There were maybe a dozen other survivors surrounding the air craft in a daze, they must have exited at a different row. A few looked up, saw the dead ones stumble and fall down the slide. The sight was almost comical, and for one insane moment Paul thought he was going to burst out laughing.

“They’re dead, stay away from them!” the young woman cried out at a few good samaritans racing over to help the falling bodies. They either didn’t hear her or understand, and as Paul watched one of the falling corpses seized its would be rescued and dragged him into its gnashing jaws.

Paul was jerked suddenly, the young women was yanking him away.

“Keep going,” Paul heard her say, “Oh Jesus Christ, _keep going_.”

He was dimly aware of sirens and flashing lights out in the distance. Rescue workers. Paul staggered toward them, becoming vaguely aware of his surroundings. The plane had come down in an empty field about twenty yards from the highway, which was alight with flashing blue and red lights.

Paul made it about halfway with the help of the young woman, who was somehow still supporting him while holding her baby one-armed. Her strength gave out when Paul staggered and he fell down to his hands and knees, overwhelmed by another coughing fit. He couldn’t _breathe_ , it was as though the smoke of burning fuel had followed him out.

Figures were running towards them. Instead of EMTs or firefighters they were soldiers; soldiers in full combat gear with guns raised

Paul had a dizzy moment of terror when one of the soldiers pointed the gun at him and yelled at the young woman to move away from him. He heard her yell that Paul was alive, not one of the dead ones. The soldier screamed at her to fucking _move._ Paul could do nothing more than cough and retch, his arms trembling with the effort of holding him up.

“Lower your gun!” a voice shouted, “They’re alive, get out the ones you can by the plane before the chopper shows up!”

More yelling that Paul was having trouble following, everything was confusion, a large figure dropped down beside him and shoved a mask over his face. There was a hissing noise and Paul could _breathe,_ and for an unknown amount of time everything else registered in fragments. Someone lifted him onto a raised stretcher, strapping him upright. Voices screaming to move, to get the area clear _now._

The roar of engines. Lights flashing by him, getting hit in the face with a blast of wind. He was being raced toward a helicopter by medics. He saw the young mother still holding her baby running beside him. He was loaded inside the chopper along with his medics and a few other stunned survivors. A moment of vertigo as the craft lifted off. He rolled his head, looking out a window. In the darkness he saw flickering fire from the scattered wreckage. The helicopter climbed higher, moving away from the site, fires becoming flickering lights like candles. Then there was a flash of fire tumbling through the sky.

There was a fraction of a second that was completely silent.

Then a roar of sound, and the field was ablaze. Around him people were screaming and the medical team was trying to calm them.

Paul felt distant and unreal. The world got fuzzy and seemed to loop in on itself. He was in the back of an medical hospital with a mask over his face struggling to breathe. At the same time he was lost in a memory of the day he met Daryl, huddled in the corner of the ambulance and praying that the biker he watched get creamed by that truck held on and didn’t die.

Medics were hovering over him, shining lights in Paul’s eyes. Their own eyes over their face masks were wide and scared. One was saying to make sure Paul was strapped down tight, he said he didn’t give a fuck if it only looked like smoke inhalation, do _not_ take any chances.

In the back of the ambulance he saw to his relief that the biker was moving around. The biker took his mask off and asked for “Jesus”. Paul smiled and took his hand, thinking that he really needed a haircut.

_You’ve got pretty eyes, what color are they?_ The biker-Daryl, he’d said his name was Daryl-said to Paul in a dazed voice.

Voices were a blur around Paul. He thought he heard a baby crying and with great difficulty turned his head and saw the baby from the plane strapped to a miniature stretcher, his mother clinging to the side.

In the back of the ambulance the biker was saying, _Hey Paul? I love you._ That wasn’t right, it hadn’t happened that way, but it didn’t seem to matter much.

“I love you too,” Paul whispered, as the world faded out.


	3. Daryl, Part II

Daryl spent his last evening with Paul stretched out side by side in their deck chairs on the back patio, sipping beer in a comfortable silence. Lou was sprawled out in the grass a little ways off, tongue out and panting, her frisbee between her paws. Paul had been throwing it to her earlier; arcing it up as high as he could so she could jump up and catch it midair. As usual Paul ended up having to push her away when he thought she had enough; the dumb dog would chase after a frisbee until she keeled over in exhaustion so long as there was a willing human to throw it. Undeterred, she threw her drool-covered toy on Daryl’s chest instead. Daryl just glared at her until she lowered her ears, snatched the frisbee up almost delicately and ran a few circles in the yard before flopping down in the grass.

It was a pleasant evening, early June and cool once the sun started to go down. Both men were comfortably full, the the steak dinner that Daryl fixed already eaten. He wasn’t much of a cook but he could fucking _grill_ ; and he’d even sprung for the fancy filets Paul liked as one final apology for bailing on the Chicago trip. Paul had forgiven him for it ages ago but watching him pack for the flight caused guilt to prick at Daryl’s insides. So he made Paul dinner just how he liked it—steak so rare there was a chance it would start mooing, garlic toast, and grilled summer squash on the side. Daryl even ate a large portion of the veggies himself, just because seeing him eat healthy put Paul in a good mood.

It all must have worked, Paul had a little smile playing on his lips as he stared dreamily out at the fireflies starting to come out across the yard.Daryl stretched his left hand out idly and placed it on his boyfriend’s knee, rubbing little circles with his thumb. Paul’s dreamy little smile broadened as he laid his own hand over Daryl’s, the pads of his fingers tracing the little scars on them. He sighed and closed his eyes, “Wish you were coming with me.”

Daryl tensed, Paul had been _pissed_ months ago when he went to book their plane tickets and Daryl told him he’d have to work after all. Paul thought he was just being a pussy and could have gotten out of work if he _really_ wanted to. It had sparked one of the uglier fights of their four year relationship. But Paul didn’t sound angry that moment, just a little wistful and sad, so Daryl replied, “Next time. Ride the bikes ‘stead of fly, maybe take a few days to have a stopover in Nashville.”

Paul cracked an eye and studied Daryl, “Promise?”

“Yeah,” Daryl said, and he meant it. He felt guiltyas hell about the whole thing; he couldn’t argue that there had been a lot of truth to Paul’s accusation that he was avoiding the trip out of fear. Fear of getting on a dang airplane— Daryl had never flown anywhere in his entire life and the whole thing made him break out into a cold sweat. Less the idea of crashing and more the idea of being in a cramped space surrounded by people for hours, unable to leave. Fear of the city itself—Daryl felt awkward and out of place enough during their infrequent trips to Atlanta, and Chicago was a whole other level of big. Fear of meeting Paul’s fancy Chicago friends, even after all this time part of Daryl was afraid they’d convince Paul he could do better than some redneck freak. Fearing on some level that they were right.

“Hmmm. Don’t think I’ll forget this one, Dixon,” Paul said, still smiling that sweet little smile.

“Ain’t a problem,” Daryl said, sliding his hand up Paul’s thigh a little more.

“If you’re looking to get laid tonight you’re a few beers too late.”

Daryl snorted at that. Truth was he had a bit too many to really be in the mood, but Paul was leaving for a whole week and Daryl was going to _miss_ him, dang it. “Lightweight.”

“Truth, sadly. Don’t worry, I’ll rock your world when I get back.”

“Don’t think I’ll forget this one.”

Despite those words Daryl actually did end up getting laid before Paul left. His flight left at 10:30 in the morning and he needed to catch the 7 o’clock Groome shuttle to the airport. Normally that meant Paul hitting the snooze button until 6:45 so they had just enough time to throw clothes on and race to the shuttle stop on campus. That morning was different; both men drifting into wakefulness at the same while it was still dark and rolling instinctively against each other. Much later Daryl would think that he should have sensed _something_ that morning; some sign that it was the last time. But he didn’t; they had slow and dreamy sex as dawn lightened the darkness around them to grey. Afterward Daryl lay in bed drifting while Paul showered and made coffee, getting up with plenty of time to throw on some clothes. Lou tried following them out, whining anxiously. She was smart enough to know that Paul leaving in the morning with a suitcase meant he would be gone for a long time.

“Be a good girl, Jean Louise,” Paul said, patting her head, “Keep him out of trouble.”

The shuttle was already there when they pulled up, there was only enough time for a quick kiss goodbye. Daryl’s last image of Paul was climbing into the back of the shuttle. The other man turned and gave a brief wave, the corners of his lips quirked.

*******************

Two days after the phone conversation that confirmed the end of the world Daryl woke up on the kitchen floor surrounded by empty bottles. His head was pounding, it felt like someone had shoved firecrackers up his ears and lit a match. His mouth was painfully dry; when he swallowed his tongue felt like sandpaper sliding over the roof of his mouth. In addition there was the sour taste of bile in his mouth, he had a fractured memory of heaving up blood-streaked puke into the kitchen sink.

He was so overcome with his bodily discomfort it took him a minute to remember that Paul was dead. When he did none of the physical pain seemed to matter.

“Fuck,” he rasped, voice sounding raw. He fumbled at some of the scattered bottles on the floor, wanting a drink of something, anything, that would numb his brain back up. They were all empty, however.

“Fuck,” he repeated, throwing his arm over his face. He wanted to just lay there until he passed out again but the thrumming pain in his skull and his parched mouth made that impossible. Instead he gritted his teeth, rolled over and got to his knees. That movement was enough to cause his stomach to wobble unpleasantly and he dry-heaved, it made it feel like something in his throat had ripped. Nothing came up, however, Daryl had an idea that there was nothing left. He waited and the nausea passed eventually and he was able to get to his feet. He stumbled over to the kitchen sink, it was full of vomit on one side and the sight made Daryl’s stomach clench again. He squeezed his eyes shut, pulled the faucet over to the other side and twisted the handle. Nothing happened.

Daryl opened his eyes and stared at the faucet in confusion. He twisted the knobs again, and again nothing happened.

“What the fuck,” he said. Paul paid the water on the first of every month, in the two and a half years they’d been keeping house he’d never missed a payment. Even if he had they wouldn’t just shut the water off without some kind of notice. Daryl’s throat felt especially dry, he needed _something_ to drink, he even found himself looking over at the Lou’s bowls on the floor, but her water dish was empty too.

Come to that, where was the fucking dog? He shook his head and tried to remember, it was difficult. He had not been sober for longer than a few minutes since his conversation with Jenny the customer service representative. He had vague memories of yelling at Lou when he noticed her waiting by the front door. She did that every time Paul left for a trip, went to the front door at around five or so and pressed her pink nose against the glass of the sidelights. After several hours her ears would droop and she’d decide to make due with Daryl. It would have been irritating if Daryl couldn’t relate so much. But yesterday (or was it the day before? Daryl couldn’t remember) when he saw her waiting something in him snapped. He remembered screaming that Paul wasn’t coming back, throwing a half empty bottle of beer that missed her by a wide arc and shattered against the floor. She tucked her tail between her legs and ran into the computer room. The memory made Daryl feel like a piece of shit.

“Lou?” he called out in a raspy voice hardly above a whisper. She was probably still in the computer room curled up under Paul’s desk. The thought made Daryl bury his face in his hands and tremble for a few minutes. Fuck. He’d look for her later, right now he needed a drink of something, anything.

That was when he remembered the truck bed full of supplies he bought a few days ago, including several cases of bottled water. He shuffled to the door to the garage feeling about twenty years older than he was.

The garage was dim, when Daryl flipped the light switch nothing happened. Water and power were out. He had a vague feeling that he should be concerned about these developments but was too distracted by thirst. He propped the door to the kitchen open to let a little light in, then made his way to the back of the truck. He still couldn’t see very well, so he bent down and pulled the garage door up to about eye level. Dazzling light filled the little single car garage, it went through his skull like daggers.

He shook his head and started digging through the bed of the truck, finally finding one of the cases of bottled water. It was warm from sitting in their hot little garage for days but Daryl hardly noticed. He gulped down nearly half the bottle in one long pull, then poured a little over his head.

There was movement at the open door leading to the kitchen, and when Daryl looked up Lou was peering cautiously into the garage. “Hey girl,” he said. Remembering her empty water bowl he snapped his fingers and called her over. She came hesitantly, in a way that broke his heart. He knelt down to her level and poured some water into his cupped hand. She slurped it up eagerly and he kept pouring more out until she pulled back and licked her lips. He stayed crouched down on the garage floor, leaning against the truck. Lou wiggled close to him, resting her head against one of his knees and staring up into his face. He reached down and started rubbing her ears. Her tail beat against the floor, any wariness of him forgiven and forgotten. Fuck, people didn’t deserve dogs, especially assholes like him.

“I dunno what to do, girl,” he whispered. If the power and water were out things were going to hell faster than he thought, he tried to remember anything he’d seen on the news these past few days. It was all a blur. But he knew it was bad, and he didn’t know what he should do. Take the dog and head up alone to the mountains? He pushed the thought away. Somehow leaving the house and heading out alone was more final than any phone call confirming Paul’s death could ever be.

Lou jerked her head off Daryl’s knee suddenly and stared out the open garage door. The hair on her back went up and she started growling. Daryl looked up to see what got her attention and had a nasty start. In the driveway a few yards from the open door was a large man with his head thrown back and swaying on his feet.

“ _Dan?_ ” Daryl called out, when his heart settled. It had taken him a few minutes to recognize his neighbor of over two years. “What the hell—“ he said as he rose to his feet. He started walking toward the other man and froze when he reached the threshold of the garage door.

That was when Daryl really _saw_ him.

He was dead.

When Daryl was seven years old his gramma Belle had died. They had a cheap funeral for a cheap woman, and one of Daryl’s lasting memories was of the shade of bluish white flesh peaking through poorly applied makeup. That and the unnatural stillness of the body. It wasn’t like the movies, she didn’t look asleep, she looked _dead._

Neighbor Dan’s skin was that same shade of blueish white, his eyes were wide and clouded over. There was that unnatural slackness in the muscles of most of his body. Despite all that he _was_ moving, his mouth was spasming open and closed. It looked so _wrong,_ like one of those animatronic animals at Disneyland, that Daryl thought he would be sick. Daryl’s mind struggled to reconcile those facts, tried to make some sort of sense of the fact that a corpse up and moving.

It turned to Daryl, mouth spasming open and closed, then staggered up the drive.

Daryl stood frozen, like a bird spotting a snake, the unreality of the situation dulling his reflexes. He might have stood there until the walking pile of meat that used to be his neighbor grabbed him and tore him to pieces if Lou hadn’t started barking that savage bark Daryl had first heard from her a few days ago.

Everything happened very fast after that.

Daryl stepped back, grabbing the garage door and tugging. It didn’t move; the springs used for the mechanical opener frozen.

Neighbor Dan was a few feet away, arms extended.

Daryl moved back, swinging his leg up and kicking the Neighbor Dan in the solar plexus. A blow like that would normally drop a man to the ground, knock all his air out and leave him gasping. Daryl knew this from experience, he’d been in enough bar fights over the years.

Neighbor Dan’s corpse just staggered back a few feet and kept coming.

Daryl reached up and grabbed the garaged door and _yanked_ , tugging it free. It started to slide down, metal screaming in protest.

Icy hands closed on Daryl’s shoulders. Daryl let go of the garage door and grappled with the slab of flesh that had been his neighbor. Dan had been a huge bear of a man, over six feet and near three hundred pounds. Daryl would have been fucked if not for Lou.

If he thought her frenzied attack on their privacy fence a few nights ago was a shock then it was nothing compared to the way she went after Neighbor Dan. Their sweet, dopey girl who was intimidated by the neighborhood cats had been transformed into a savage, snarling _beast._ She leapt up and sunk her jaws into Dan’s bare bicep, the powerful muscles of her neck thrashing back and forth, tearing out chunks of flesh and laying the arm open to the bone.

The thing didn’t react as though it were in pain, just distracted. It let go over Daryl and grabbed at the dog, there was a snap of teeth, and Dan’s fingers were gone.

Free of the corpse’s crushing grip Daryl reached behind him and grabbed a hold of the truck’s back for balance, jumped straight up, and kicked out both legs as hard as he could, planting both feet in Neighbor Dan’s chest and shoving.

Even strong and imperious to pain the force of the blow plus fifty pounds of enraged pit bull clinging to its arm caused the corpse to topple to the ground, its skull thumping against the concrete with a loud _thud._

“ _Lou, get back!”_ Daryl shouted. Its fall had not even slowed the corpse down, it was trying to get up, trying to twist around to grab at the dog shredding its other arm.

To Daryl’s shock and gratitude Lou listened, leaping back from the corpse and barking at it from a distance away, blood and drool flying from her lips.

Neighbor Dan had fallen across the threshold of the garage, and this time when Daryl grabbed the garage door he pulled it down with every ounce of strength he possessed. It came down hard and fast, slamming into Dan’s skull. Daryl raised it up a few feet and brought it down again, and again, and _again,_ until he lost count, until the body was still and there was nothing left of the thing’s face but a mess of bone and gristle.

Daryl stared at the body for a beat before racing to grab his crossbow from the rack on the far side of the garage where he stored his hunting supplies. He loaded the quiver and strapped his buck knife to his thigh, feeling unreality wash over him. He looked over his shoulder at the streak of blood and brains splattered over the garage door.

Daryl had _liked_ Dan. He was homophobic, but the sort who thought butt sex was icky and not the sort that would try to beat your ass because of it. So long as Daryl didn’t talk about his love life he and Neighbor Dan got along just fine, which Daryl wouldn’t have done it even if Dan had asked. Their conversations were limited mostly to hunting, the Falcons’ chances for the Super Bowl, and the finer points of motorcycle repair. They weren’t best buddies but Dan was a good neighbor. Now he was dead and Daryl had just beaten his brains out to make sure he was _extra_ dead.

Before Daryl could dwell on this too much he was startled by Lou’s barking. The dog was at the garage door, it was propped up a few inches by what was left of Dan’s head. In the sliver of light from the open door Daryl could see the shadows of many figures moving in.


	4. Paul: Part II

They threw Paul in an actual cage the same day he woke up. They wouldn’t tell him how long he would have to stay quarantined, and by day three he realized that he would only leave this place in a body bag, if at all.

Paul thought he should have realized the reality of his situation immediately, as soon as Dr. Krieg came in to inspect him and gave him her waxwork smile. She came not long after he regained consciousness; he woke up strapped down to a hospital bed in a crowded ward that was tended by armed guards in addition to nurses. Neither guards nor nurses would tell him much more than the basics: He was at Fort Henry Medical Center in Kentucky. All the survivors of his flight had been airlifted there after the crash. He had suffered from moderate smoke inhalation but his vitals looked good and he would make a full recovery. They couldn’t tell him much more, that someone would come shortly to give him an all clear to be moved.

“Someone” turned out to be Dr. Krieg. She was an older woman with greying copper hair, high cheekbones, and unnaturally smooth skin. Paul thought she had the sort of face that had once been called handsome, but age had over-defined her features and given her a skull like appearance. She frightened Paul more than the armed soldiers accompanying her did.

“Mr. Monroe, how are you feeling?” she said, inspecting his chart. Her voice was accentless and as unnaturally smooth as her skin was. One of Paul’s friends had a GPS unit for her car, and Dr. Krieg made Paul think of its crisp and emotionless voice.

“Rovia,” Paul corrected her hoarsely, “And I’ve been better. Why am I here?”

Her eyes flicked up from his chart to his face then back again, “I see. Mr. _Rovia,_ my apologies. You were in an accident.”

“I know _that,_ ” Paul said, trying to push away the flickering memories of horror that wanted to come, “I meant why am here, why not a civilian hospital?”

“Ah,” she said, composing her features into what attempted but didn’t quite pass for a concerned look, “We are in the midst of a grave situation at the moment. I’m sure you’ve seen reports on the newsof a flu-like illness. It appears that the disease is spreading much quicker and farther than was originally anticipated. The nearest civilian hospital to the crash site was over capacity, and our personnel was in the area already. So you were brought here.”

 _Our personnel,_ Paul thought. By which she meant the military. He remembered the flashes of light in the sky, and the wreckage blazing. “They bombed it,” Paul said in horror.

“Yes,” she said, “Once the survivors were clear. We had reason to believe the bodies on the aircraft were infected. An unfortunate necessity.”

 _The bodies were infected,_ Paul thought. The memory of the old woman’s cold and clammy skin came to him so vividly he thought he might be sick. “They were dead,” Paul said slowly, “Then they weren’t. What the hell…what kind of flu does that?” He knew he sounded crazy but he also knew what he saw.

“This disease does not resurrect people,” Dr. Krieg said, “However, there is a stage where the infected individual may appear dead.”

 _Bullshit,_ Paul thought but did not say. He’d seen dead bodies before, and despite what was shown in the movies the difference was obvious.

Dr. Krieg interrupted this train of thought, “Mr. Rovia. I understand how upsetting and frightening this must be. But you’re in the best place you can be, we’re going to look after you."

Paul felt the opposite of reassured at those words, they had an ominous ring to them. “When can I leave?” he asked, keeping his voice steady only with a great deal of effort. “They said it was just smoke inhalation.”

Dr. Krieg’s waxwork doll face didn’t twitch, “I’m afraid it’s more serious than that. We’re not sure how this disease is spread, and we need to be certain that you and the other passengers weren’t infected. You’re to be quarantined.”

Paul thought he knew what being scared was but the hellish memories of his escape from the crash were nothing compared to what he was feeling now. _Infected._ “Can I make a phone call, at least?” he asked.

“The president has declared a state of emergency, calls are only for the most essential of communications.” The way she spoke made Paul’s skin want to crawl off. She made Paul feel like a research subject instead of a patient.

“ _Please._ I need to call my partner and tell him I’m ok,” as he said that the word _infected_ flashed through his mind. He’d come of age at the tail end of the AIDS crisis, but he had a few older friends back in Chicago who had lived through the worst of it and shared their horror stories with him. Wards full of unburied bodies, men dying and nurses refusing to treat them, some wouldn’t even go into the same room. _Was_ Paul ok, or was he _infected?_ A dead man walking? He pushed the thought away, he _needed_ to speak to Daryl regardless.

“I’m sure he’s been notified,” Dr Krieg said, distractedly scribbling on Paul’s chart. She didn’t even bother to look at him. Something about her dismissive tone of voice made Paul angry rather than afraid for the first time since he woke up.

“Unless there have been reports of a crazed redneck trying to break into this place then no, he _hasn’t_ been fucking notified,” Paul snapped. Beside Dr. Krieg one of the soldier’s hand drifted down to his sidearm. The movement startled Paul, he’d almost forgotten the guards were there.

Dr Krieg looked up from the chart, and Paul was chilled by the blank expression in her eyes, “Mr Rovia, I understand that you’re upset. But we’re in a crisis. This is the best place for you right now.”

**********

The best place for Paul was apparently one of dozens of cages hastily constructed from chainlink fencing in what had once been the hospital cafeteria. Paul caught a blur of frightened faces as he was marched to his cage by armed guards on either side of him. They’d given him sweats and a t-shirt that were both too big for him, and a pair of thick socks. It made him feel even more like a prisoner than he already was. No one could tell him what had happened to the clothing he was wearing on the plane, or where his billfold with his identification and credit cards were. They also gave him a rolled up sleeping bag and a pillow before locking him up.

The sound of the lock turning jacked up his heartbeat and he swallowed down panic. He’d had stints in juvie during his misspent youth, he could take this. Or so he tried to convince himself, there was a frightened part of him that knew his situation in juvie had never been this dire. Locked up by the damn military, and no one knew where he was.He wasn’t alone in this narrow little cage. There were two other occupants- a younger guy with frosted tips who looked like the distilled essence of every single frat boy who had ever come to Paul’s desk to whine about a hold on his account. The other man was an older man with bulging blue eyes that stared vacantly at nothing.

Before Paul could say anything to either of them he heard a woman’s voice softly call out, “Jesus?”

Paul turned, and saw in the cage adjoining his own was a familiar looking young woman. She had a cautious smile, and it took Paul a moment to place her. After all, it was his first good look at her without smoke in his eyes and half mad from terror.

For the first time since he regained consciousness some of dread weighing him down lightened, if only a little. He felt a smile of his own spread across his face as he hurried over to her. “Hey,” he said, then started to ask where her baby was when he saw to his relief that it was being fussed over by one of her cellmates. His smile broadened, he hadn’t had much time to consciously wonder what had happened to her but was glad nonetheless. “Are you two ok?”

“We’re both fine,” she said, following his gaze to her son. She looked drawn and tired, “I’m so glad to see you, they wouldn’t tell me much about the other survivors.” She paused, “I didn’t even know your name to ask about you.”

“I’m Paul,” he said, “But you can keep calling me Jesus, a lot of my friends do.”

She let out a little snort of laughter, “Paul is nice. I’m Carmen; and that’s Mateo,” she said, gesturing over to her son. When she met Paul’s eyes again her smile faded and she looked on the verge of tears, “I…I don’t know how to thank you. You saved us.”

Paul looked away, embarrassed, “You saved me right back, no thanks needed.” He remembered exactly what he saved the two of them from, and his heart sank. Looking into her bright eyes Paul could tell she was thinking about the same thing. He said nothing for several moments, then, “That woman, was she—“

“My mother,” Carmen said. Her voice was deceptively steady, but Paul could still sense the anguish coming from her.

“I’m sorry,” Paul whispered.

She nodded, and her calm face crumpled, but only for a moment before she visibly pulled herself together. Paul wished the fencing wasn’t there, she looked like she could use a hug. He made due with saying, “My parents died when I was a kid. I know there’s nothing to really say to make it better.”

She wiped her eyes with her hand, and gave him one of those smiles, one that was more of a grimace, that people sometimes gave when they were trying not to cry. The two of the stood there saying nothing, each lost in their own thoughts. Finally, she said, “What about you? Were you… was anyone else with you on that flight?”

Paul shook his head. “I was traveling alone,” he replied, feeling a burst of guilt. Why had he been so damn stubborn about going on this trip when Daryl said he couldn’t go? If he had rescheduled then he’d been in Athens right now, or up north in the mountains. Either way he’d be with Daryl, and more than anything he wanted to feel the other man’s arms around him, wanted to bury his face in Daryl’s shoulder and breathe in the scent of him, “Did they let you call anyone?” Paul asked her, noticing a wedding ring on her finger, “Your husband, or someone?”

She shook her head,“My husband died last year, but they wouldn’t let me call my dad or my sister. You?”

Paul felt his heart speed up, he’d been hoping their refusal to let him call Daryl was because he was just Paul’s boyfriend and not technically family according to their asinine rules. He saw his own fear reflected in her eyes. “How long have you been here?” Paul asked.

“They gave us a checkup as soon as the helicopter landed, then put us both in here.”

“Have they said how _much_ longer you’ll be here?”

“No,” she said. She looked very afraid, “Justine,” she gestured over to her cellmate, who was still fussing over Mateo and didn’t seem to have overheard their conversation, “She thinks we’ll be let out soon, or moved somewhere else. Somewhere safe.”

“What do you think?” Paul asked, although one look at her face answered that question.

“I think we’re going to be here for awhile.”

“I think you’re right.”

**********

The next few days passed so slowly Paul thought he would lose his mind. He tried to keep himself occupied, doing sit-ups and pushups until he could barely move, talking with Carmen and Justine, and avoiding talking to his own cellmates. Austin—the younger frat boy looking guy— looked like he’d been forced to swallow dog shit when he overheard Paul telling Carmen about Daryl. He kept shooting dirty looks Paul’s way; looks Paul recognized. He got a lot of those looks at McCreary House growing up, and before Paul started his karate classes they usually presaged an ass kicking. Roland, his other cell mate, just mumbled something about picking his grandkids up from school then stared off into space when Paul tried to talk to him. He preferred Carmen and Justine, they were afraid but not angry or broken.

Carmen told him about herself-her husband Steve had been military, he’d died in Afghanistan before she even realized she was pregnant with Mateo. She’d been in Chicago living with her parents ever since, but had been planning on moving to Atlanta to be with her sister’s family.

“Thought it would be better for us,” Carmen explained, “I love my parents, but it was driving me crazy to live with them.” She went quiet then whispered, “It was so stupid. I wish…”

“You couldn’t have known. No one could have known about _this,”_ Paul said, gesturing around them.

Carmen gave him a look, “Going to stop beating yourself up about not rescheduling your trip, then?”

“Touché,” Paul said quietly. He stared at the tattoo of the little winged skull on his ring finger. _Remember that you are going to die._

 _“_ I’ve been meaning to ask you what that is,” Carmen said, noticing Paul’s stare.

“Huh? Oh, the tattoo,” he said, “Daryl and I got them for our third anniversary earlier this year.” _Fourth anniversary,_ he heard Daryl snarl in the back of his mind. Neither one of them could agree on when they should start counting. Daryl liked counting from the day they first met, which Paul didn’t because it was the same day Daryl nearly died. He preferred almost a year after that when they first kissed, which Daryl hated since Paul had been blind drunk at the time. Didn’t matter what happened after or how many times Paul insisted it was just Dutch courage Daryl still was sensitive about it. “We can’t get married yet, but we wanted to do something special. And permanent, so matching tattoos.”

“That’s sweet,” Carmen said, glancing sadly at the gold wedding band she still wore on her own finger.

They were inspected for fevers twice a day by armed guards. By the third day Paul had taken the measure of them. He was good at reading people, he _had_ to be, he would have gotten killed on the streets if he couldn’t tell who to trust. The guards who checked them in the morning were friendly and chatty, making jokes with their huddled patients. The guards who did their evening checkups were quiet and didn’t say any more than they had to. Neither one of them would look Paul or anyone else in the eye.

 _Those two,_ Paul thought to himself. Those two knew what they were doing was fucked up and wrong, and it was eating at them. The morning guards didn’t give a fuck about any of the “patients”, they were the sort who would tell jokes and make small talk right up until the moment it was time to toss someone into the incinerator. After they would go home and eat dinner and sleep like babies.

When he shared these thoughts with Carmen on the second day she went quiet. The two of them were sitting next to each other on the floor, leaning against the chain link fencing separating them. Carmen was nursing Mateo and Paul was glaring at Austin whenever he tried to get a furtive glimpse of her breasts.

“You don’t think,” Carmen whispered in a shaky voice, “You don’t think it will come to that, do you?”

Paul spared a glance down at Mateo contentedly clinging to his mother’s breast. Paul wasn’t much of a baby person but he couldn’t deny Mateo was a stupidly cute little kid, with huge brown eyes, chubby cheeks, and a little rosebud mouth. You could slap him on an ad for baby food. “I don’t know,” Paul finally replied, “What do you think?”

“If it were Steve,” she said softly, “He’d never do anything like that. He’d try and stop it if he was ordered to do it.”

“Well, I hope some of these guys are like your husband was,” he replied.

“So do I.”

There was only so much time he could eat up, only so many subjects to talk about. He spent hours stretched out on his sleeping bag, mind racing. Trying to convince himself that everything would be fine, and to come up with a plan in case it didn’t. His mind, however, kept going to the past. He supposed it was the hospital scent lurking under the scent of unwashed people and the porto johns. Lysol and sickness.

He got very familiar with that scent when he first met Daryl all those years ago, in the earliest days of their relationship. In the days when he had no idea what was coming. When Paul asked a bleeding Daryl if he had any family the other man said he only had his brother who was in fucking jail. There was no way Paul could have left him alone in the hospital after that. That was the reason it started, but not the reason it continued. Long before Daryl was discharged from the hospital Paul realized that he just plain _liked_ the guy.

Paul obviously hadn’t expected to fall in love with him, though. He couldn’t have predicted then that over the span of the next year he would fall head over heels for the grizzled redneck he found literally by the side of the road. Hell, wouldn’t have predicted that they would have ended up even being friends.

Much later he would think it was a good thing he never saw it coming until it was too late; if he _had_ then he probably would have ran screaming in the opposite direction. He’d done it before; the main reason he left Chicago for Athens in the first place was because someone had tried and almost succeeded in getting close.

He’d been in town for less than a year when Daryl Dixon was flung like a rag doll in his path, and was surprised at just how much Athens felt like home. More than Chicago ever had. Athens had a lot of the small town feel of where he’d grown up but with less of the homophobia and racism due to the presence of the university. The music and arts scene were good, and it was close enough to Atlanta for a day trip whenever he missed being in a proper _city._ Atlanta wasn’t Chicago but it was enough to scratch the itch.

Daryl had been prickly as all hell when Paul first started visiting him in the hospital. “I don’t need no pity,” he said in a gruff voice during Paul’s second visit.

“It’s not pity, it’s a hobby,” Paul shot back. Daryl gave him a confused look, “Roadside Curiosities. You know, world’s largest ball of twine, mystery spots, that sort of thing. I was on my way back from looking for a giant rocking chair in the middle of nowhere when I ran into you,” Paul said truthfully. He loved odd bits of Americana, had heard about the rocking chair in the middle of nowhere from a coworker, “‘Half dead’ redneck isn’t as cool,” he went on to explain, “But hey, it’s something. I owe you, made it so my trip wasn’t a waste.”

Daryl stared at him when he finished talking, face blank. It flustered Paul, he had meant it as a joke, but looking at Daryl’s face he realized the words could be seen as cruel, like he thought Daryl was some sort of freak. Before he could apologize a snort of laughter burst out of Daryl, “That so.”

“Yep,” Paul said, relieved he hadn’t offended the guy.

“Where’s this rockin’ chair s’posed to be at?”

“I had it on a map, up near Lula. Couldn’t find it, though.”

Daryl hummed thoughtfully, “That ain’t far from me. I can help you find it when I’m better.”

Paul grinned, “See? Not pity. Mutually beneficial relationship.”

Over the next month Daryl was hospitalized Paul discovered there was a lot more to him than met the eye. Daryl was uneducated but smarter than a _lot_ of the college professors Paul had to wrangle at work; he didn’t talk much but when he did he had a sharp wit that caught Paul off guard every time. What started as visits just to make sure Daryl wasn’t too lonely ended up being the highlights of Paul’s week. Chatting over card games, or watching movies on Paul’s little portable DVD player, or just reading quietly together.

“How’d you end up in Athens?” Daryl asked during one of Paul’s visits. They were playing checkers on the board Paul had brought, one of those little travel ones with magnetic pieces.

“Hmmm? Picked it out of a hat, really,” Paul replied, “Just wanted out of Chicago, preferably somewhere warm.” That wasn’t completely accurate, he had ended up settling on Athens out of all his options because he’d gone through a brief REM obsession in middle school, largely due to seeing the video for “Losing My Religion” when he was eleven. It had hit him like a ton of bricks for reasons he wouldn’t completely understand for a few years.

“Just like that?” Daryl said, surprised.

Paul shrugged, “Didn’t have any family there. Had some friends, but I was just _tired_ of the winters there, you know? Chicago winters aren’t anything to fuck around with.” Again not the whole truth, but all he felt comfortable sharing with Daryl at the time.

“Expect that’s as good a reason as any,” Daryl said thoughtfully.

“What about you? Did you always live in Sedalia?”

“My whole life,” Daryl said, then shrugged, “Ain’t never even been out of the state of Georgia.”

Paul looked at him in surprise, “Not even up to Tennessee or Carolina?” Paul had a good grasp of geography, and when he looked up Daryl’s tiny town on a map he saw it was only a few hours from the border of both those states.

“Nah,” Daryl said, looking uncomfortable.

Paul, who had rambled from one end of the country to the other over the past few years, tried to imagine that. Imagine staying in one place his entire life. He couldn’t decide if it sounded nice or not. “I can’t imagine, I had to move around a lot when I was in foster care. And even more whenever I’d run away.”

“Foster care?” Daryl said, giving him a sharp look. “Were your parents assholes, or did they die?”

“They died,” Paul said, without elaborating.

“My mom died when I was a kid,” Daryl said. “Passed out smoking, burned part of the house down.”

“Jesus,” Paul said, “But you had your dad still?”

“Yeah,” Daryl said, somehow conveying that this was a lot worse, “And Merle, before he run off and when he wasn’t in juvie,” Daryl sighed, “He’s a bit of an asshole, is Merle.”

“Why is he in jail, if you don’t mind my asking?” Paul asked curiously. Daryl gave him a slanted look, and Paul quickly said, “No judgement. I spent a good bit of time in juvie myself. Fighting, mostly.”

“You?” Daryl said, eying him skeptically.

“Don’t let my resemblance to our lord and savior fool you. I was a hellion in my teens.”

Daryl still looked like he was having trouble imagining it, but didn’t press him further, “Merle’s in the joint for dealin’ meth. Used to come down here and sell it to some college kids, one had to be taken to the E.R.,” Daryl looked thoughtful, “Probably this here hospital, now that I think of it. Anyhow, Merle’s lucky the kid didn’t die, they’d’ve probably tried to nail him for manslaughter.”

Paul didn’t say anything for a bit, studying the game board for the first time in several turns. He realized he’d been a bit too hasty in the “no judgement” declaration. He pushed the thought away, Daryl wasn’t his brother. “How long is he in there for?” Paul finally settled on asking.

“Got ten years, with an option of parole after five, if he can behave hisself. Which means he’ll do the ten years and them some, most like.” He picked up one of his black checker pieces and skipped it quickly over four of Paul’s red pieces. “King me,” Daryl said.

“We’re playing chess next,” Paul muttered.

“No need to be a sore loser,” Daryl said.

“Mmmm. Do you miss him? Merle, I mean,” Paul asked.

An odd look passed over Daryl’s face, “I come to visit every week that I can.”

Not really an answer, Paul thought. Or not the whole answer. Paul didn’t press, if Daryl didn’t want to talk about it then he didn’t have to. The other man had extended Paul the same courtesy, one of the reasons he liked the guy. He knew when to drop a subject.

******

“What crawled up your ass and died today?” Paul asked Daryl a week later. The other man had been surly and bitchy during Paul’s entire visit.

Daryl gave him a half-hearted glare, “Asshole from hospital billing came by.”

Paul made a sympathetic little noise. A few years ago he’d broken a finger and needed to go to the emergency room. He’d been uninsured, and the final bill for some x-rays and the ER doc putting a splint on his finger came to nearly five grand. Thank god he’d been able to apply for financial aid and get most of it written off. He told Daryl the other man would probably be able to do the same for some of his bill, “Insurance should take care of the rest, with a good chunk left over for pain and suffering. It was completely that asshole’s fault, he nearly killed you.”

Daryl didn’t answer, just dropped his eyes in embarrassment.

“What?”

“Insurance guy gave me the run around when I called.”

“That’s bullshit,” Paul said, indignant. “Have you talked to a lawyer?”

“Can’t afford no lawyer.”

“Most take their fees out of the settlement,” Paul said, “You should call around.” As soon as the words were out he thought of Tim. After a minute’s internal debate he said, “I actually know a guy. I can call and ask what he recommends.”

“If’n it’s not any trouble,” Daryl said, ears a little pink.

It was trouble, just not the sort Daryl was probably thinking about. But Paul just shrugged and said, “No worries. You promised to help me find that rocking chair, I intend to hold you to it.”

He called Tim that night, no sense beating around in the bush.

“ _Paul,”_ Tim practically purred, voice low and delighted, “It’s been a bit. Are you planning to head up this way sometime soon?”

“No, sadly. Just calling for legal advice.”

Tim sighed theatrically, “You make me feel so cheap sometimes, Paul.”

Paul let out a snort. Even if he was joking that was rich coming from Tim McManus. Paul had met him when he’d first moved down to Georgia almost a year ago, during a trip into Atlanta. Tim was a few years older than him, on the verge of partnership at one of the premier law firms in Atlanta, had money falling out the ass and liked everyone to know it. Drove a flashy car, lived in a high-rise in Midtown, wore bespoke suits when they went out on dates and insisted on paying for Paul’s meals in addition to buying him outrageously expensive gifts. The sex had been incredible but not so incredible it was worth feeling like a fucking hooker or worth putting up with Tim’s superficial conversation. Paul had ended it amicably enough, and he still looked Tim up sometimes when he made a trip to Atlanta. Tim was an asshole but Paul had a bit of a soft spot for him. One that grew three sizes when after Paul explained the situation Tim said, “I can do it myself, don’t worry about finding him a lawyer.”

“Really?” Paul said, surprised, “Didn’t think something like this would be worth your time.”

“It’s not, but it’s the sort of thing I can do in my sleep. Just let me take you out for dinner somewhere fancy.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Paul said.

“Don’t be so worried, I really mean just dinner. I wouldn’t say _no_ to more if you want to express your gratitude, I’m not a damn saint, but I’d just like to catch up with you.”

Paul smiled a little to himself, “You don’t need to donate your legal expertise for that.”

“Donation fuck, I’m getting _paid_ for this, but I’ll take it out of his settlement instead of charging up front.”

When Paul introduced Tim to Daryl a few days later he’d clammed up and got surly almost immediately, much to Paul’s chagrin. He’d explained to Daryl what a big favor this was and he’d seemed grateful, but he was a complete dick to Tim as soon as they were introduced.

“Sorry about that,” Paul said to Tim after that first meeting as he was walking the other man out to his car, “He’s actually a pretty cool guy.”

“He’s way less of an asshole than half the corporate motherfuckers I have to work with,” Tim said dismissively, “At least he’s an _upfront_ asshole. And I won’t really need to meet with him much after today. Where do you want to go for dinner?”

*********

Paul hadn’t told Daryl that Tim was his sort-of ex, or even that he was gay. The first because it was a little bit of an awkward subject and the second because it honestly never came up. Didn’t come up until the day Daryl was discharged from the hospital and Paul drove him home to Sedalia, and it didn’t come up in the best of ways.

The drive started out just fine, the two of them shooting the shit and cutting into each other. About half hour into it Daryl told him they were going to make a quick detour.

“Don’t know if it counts as one of yer oddities,” Daryl said, with a twitch of his lip, “But you might get a kick out of it. Rode past it awhile back when I was visiting Merle.”

“I am excited and intrigued,” Paul said, “What is it?”

“You’ll know it when you see it.”

Daryl wasn’t lying, a few minutes down the isolated country road and Paul slammed on his brakes and said, “Holy fuck.” Daryl chuckled.

In the middle of fucking nowhere was a red barn with a sign that read _Ricky Lee’s Taxidermy_. In front the barn were row after row of deer skulls, antlers, and taxidermied animals ranging from squirrels all the way up to what looked like a small brown bear.

Paul turned to Daryl with a delighted grin, “I feel like I’m destined to stop and ask for directions then be brutally murdered.”

“Do it on your way back, then,” Daryl said dryly.

“You’re no fun,” Paul said, fishing his shitty Nokia out of his pocket. The pictures it took weren’t great but he needed some kind of commemoration, and joking with Daryl aside he had no intentions of stopping back here, ever. He snapped a quick pic, catching the corner of Daryl’s face. Then he turned the car around and headed back to the main highway.

“Does your house look anything like that?” Paul asked.

“No,” Daryl said a little contemptuously, “Guys who do that are assholes. You kill things to eat ‘em, not for home decor.” In Daryl’s Georgia accent “decor” became _DAY-core._ Paul smiled.

“There goes my image of you as the redneck Gaston from _Beauty and the Beast,”_ Paul said, “ _Using aaaantlers in all of your DEEEEE-corating_ -“

“You’re one weird little asshole,” Daryl said, but he sounded amused.

“I am indeed,” Paul replied. Conversation continued drifting pleasantly from one subject to the next. Until Paul asked how Daryl’s insurance settlement was coming.

“That asshole lawyer called me,” Daryl muttered, “Loves the sound of his own voice, that one.”

“Ah, Tim’s not a bad guy. I mean, by normal person standards he is, but for a lawyer he’s alright.”

“Just don’t like that mouthy little queer is all,” Daryl muttered.

It was like being doused with cold water. Paul didn’t know why he was so surprised. Honestly, what had he been expecting? Enlightened views on homosexuality from a grouchy redneck who barely finished high school? And hadn’t part of him expected something like this, which was why Paul hadn’t mentioned his sexuality to Daryl yet? Still the comment—even though it wasn’t aimed at him—was like being sucker-punched. It _hurt_.

He took a few deep breaths in and out, eyes glued to the road. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Daryl fidgeting in his seat. “Sorry,” he said finally, noticing Paul’s mood, “I know he’s yer friend an’ all.”

“He’s not really a friend, he’s a fuck buddy,” Paul said tightly, “And he’s doing you a pretty big favor just because I asked him too.”

It was Daryl’s turn to be sucker punched. After a long moment of silence he said, “You mean you’re…”

“A mouthy little queer? Yeah.” He spared a quick glance away from the road. Daryl was staring at him, eyes wide and cheeks scarlet. When he caught Paul’s gaze he looked away sharply, head turned toward the window.

“Didn’t know,” Daryl mumbled to his reflection in the window, “No offense.” If he had left it at that Paul might have been able to let it go, shrug it off. But Daryl had to open his mouth again, “Just…just don’t make a pass at me is all. I ain’t gay.”

Another sucker-punch. “Even if you were greasy rednecks aren’t my type,” Paul snapped, “I can control myself, believe me.” Fuck, what was it about straight guys, thinking their ugly asses were irresistible? Not that Daryl was necessarily ugly, it was hard to tell under all the bruises and bandages.

Icy silence descended on the car. Paul kept his eyes grimly on the road, shoulders and neck tense. Some part of him realized he was taking Daryl’s words harder than he normally would take that kind of thing. He didn’t usually flip out every time a straight guy gave him a load of ignorant bullshit, he’d never be able to relax if that were the case.

Paul’s mind was hundreds of miles north and a dozen years in the past, when rumors that he was gay first made their way around McCreary House. Boys he thought were his friends turning on him like jackals practically overnight. Making eye contact with one of them for a second too long was all it took to instigate a fight. _Don’t look at me queerboy, I’m not gay, fucking faggot I told you not to look at me._

That icy silence lasted the final fifteen minutes it took to get to Daryl’s house in Sedalia. Although “house” was being generous; “shack” was probably a better descriptor. It was a single story shotgun style house with peeling paint and warped siding. Emerging from the overgrown tangle of weeds in the front yard were two rusted trucks on cinder blocks. Paul felt his anger at Daryl fade, the other man might hate what he deemed to be pity but the sight of that sad little shack reminded Paul just how fucking _poor_ Daryl was, and always had been. Paul wasn’t exactly rolling around in cash himself, and he supposed even a sadass little shack was better than some of the underpasses and park benches he’d called home for brief periods of time when he was younger. But at least he’d spent the first eleven years of his life in a nice house, and after that for all its flaws McCreary House had provided him with food and an education. What chance did a guy like Daryl really have?

When Paul stopped the car and put it in park Daryl mumbled, “Thanks for the ride.”

“Let me help you into the house,” Paul said.

“I can manage,” Daryl said quickly.

“It’s not an elaborate ploy to get in your pants, I promise not to leave my gay cooties on you.” Angry as Paul was he wasn’t just going to kick Daryl out of the car and make him hobble into his house, maybe taking a spill and cracking his thick skull open.

Daryl pressed his lips together and didn’t protest any further, or even say anything beyond a mumbled “Thanks” when Paul eased him into a battered La-Z-boy in the shack’s living room.

Paul took a look around after he got Daryl settled. The inside of Daryl’s shack was just as shabby as the outside. It was closed and stuffy, smelling of stale cigarettes and there was the sour scent of rotting garbage coming from the kitchen. Paul wrinkled his nose. Daryl saw, and his cheeks darkened, “Didn’t take the garbage out ‘fore I went to visit Merle last month.”

“Oh,” Paul said. After a moment’s hesitation marched into the kitchen, ignoring Daryl’s “the hell y’doing?” What Paul was doing—taking the garbage out—was obvious. After he was done with that he walked through the kitchen and living room opening windows. There was a box fan in the living room, Paul moved it closer to Daryl then turned it on. When he was finished Paul started to make his goodbyes when something else occurred to him. He went back into the kitchen and inspected the refrigerator and cabinets.

Daryl had sat in his recliner with his shoulders hunched not looking at Paul the entire time. “Where’s the nearest grocery?” Paul asked.

Daryl shot a quick glance at him, “Fuck off, don’t need charity—“

“ _You_ fuck off,” Paul snapped, “I’m not leaving you with no food and no way to get around.”

“I’ll call a buddy to take me later—“

“Oh, one of your good buddies who came to visit you in the hospital? You know what, fuck you, I can ask someone for directions.”

Daryl’s teeth were gritted and his hands were curled into fists. Paul was all the way to the door before Daryl spat out, “Go back the way we came; take the second right. Should be easy enough to find your way into town from there.”

Daryl was right; it was easy to find his way into the heart of Sedalia. It was the only bit of civilization around for miles, and “civilization” was stretching it. Paul got a few stares from the locals as he worked his way through the food mart gathering up some staples for Daryl. Milk, eggs, bread, some frozen veggies, pasta, and canned soup.

“I’ll pay you back,” Daryl mumbled when Paul returned. He looked like he hadn’t moved an inch since Paul had left, he was still hunched over in the same position.

Paul shrugged, “Whatever.”

“I will,” Daryl said emphatically.

“Ok then,” Paul said. He hesitated for a moment longer, debating with himself, “Look, give me a call if you need anything, ok?” He was able to stop himself from saying _if you don’t mind getting help from a mouthy little queer._

“You already done enough for me,” Daryl said.

Paul left then, his heart feeling heavy. He hadn’t realized until the words _mouthy little queer_ came out just how much he’d _liked_ Daryl. He didn’t make real friends easily—he enjoyed people when they occupied the same place as him, but never went to any effort to go beyond that. Actively avoided it, as a matter of fact. As he drove down the empty highway back towards Athens he supposed it was for the best that he would probably never see Daryl Dixon again.

*********

On his third day in quarantine Paul saw his first person taken _away_. None of the soldiers told any of the patients where _away_ was, and Paul supposed they didn’t need to.

The guy was in a cage a few rows down from Paul and Carmen. It was during their morning check for symptoms.

“I ain’t sick!” the man yodeled, then, “You can’t do this! This is America! Fucking _America!”_

There was a scuffle, and as Paul watched the soldiers dragged the irate patriot from his cell, ignoring the few cries from other patients asking what the hell was going on.

Paul looked through the chain link fence at Carmen. Her eyes were wide and her face was ashen. Paul remembered their conversation, remembered telling Carmen that he hoped the guards were like her late husband.

This group, at least, wasn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Fort Henry" is a fictionalized version of Fort Campbell. 
> 
> I've taken a lot of liberties with the Athens area (the Clarke County Jail isn't for longterm prisoners, for example) but Ricky Lee's Taxidermy isn't one of them. I found it years ago while very lost in the area. Name has been changed since I don't remember it, but everything else is seared in my mind.


	5. Daryl: Part III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for animals in distress and some racist slurs.

The sun had lowered in the sky, and Daryl was still on the roof. Lou was tucked against his side, head against his leg. She had been a good girl for the most part but she forgot herself sometimes watching the dead walk through the street below. Occasionally her head would pop up and she’d let out a soft “ _boof”_ then whine when Daryl told her to hush. Daryl had a hunter’s eye and a hunter’s patience. He had been watching the dead for hours, trying to make sense of them. He saw they had no real intelligence, just walked from place to place. Noise seemed to attract them, but when it stopped they just drifted, seeming to forget what they were doing. Daryl watched, going over plans in his head.

It looked like his entire damn neighborhood was on his front lawn. The noise he’d made killing Dan drew in the first wave. Daryl hadn’t even had time to clear the body away before they came, the garage door wedged on a lump of bone in Dan’s ruined face. Which meant the garage door couldn’t be closed all the way. Daryl had gotten a glimpse of dozens of pairs of legs as he knelt down to push out the body. He could _hear_ them, a dull moaning in waves. They crowded against the garage door, making it rattle. Hands appeared in the gap, they weren’t pushing up against the door deliberately but it inched up regardless. He scrambled to the back of the truck, unhooked the tow cable, and wrapped it around the tracks of the garage door. Lou was crouched down and barking at the grasping hands, snapping at a few of them. He hollered at her to shut up and get back, which she did with reluctance.

The garage door shuddered in its frame, the racket it made sounded like it would drown out the world. To his horror as he watched one of those things was able to shove its head and shoulders through the gap before getting stuck. Daryl jerked backward a step and Lou lost her mind, getting in front of him and barking savagely. The thing stretched its hand out, grasping. Lou lunged forward and seized that hand in her jaws, shaking her head back and forth so rapidly it became a blur.

Daryl raised his crossbow, “ _Damnit girl, get back!”_ He didn’t have any luck with her this time, she was in a frenzy. Before he could yell at her again there was a noise that Daryl had heard before, when he was out hunting and cleaning a kill. The sound bones make when they’re broken, followed by a sound like ripping cloth as flesh was torn.The walking corpse’s hand was pulled clean off its arm, making Lou stumble back a few steps. Before she could spring back in Daryl took aim and let the bolt fly. It hit home, landing between the corpse’s eyes. It went limp instantly, like a puppet with its strings cut. _The brain, it’s gotta be the brain,_ Daryl thought quickly.

He looked in its face and realized he recognized it—it had been a teenage girl who lived a few houses down on their street. Daryl didn’t recollect her name, she was just one of many of their neighbors he and Paul bumped into when they took Lou for her nightly walks. Their dog had her own damn fan club ever since she was a puppy, despite her size and her breed her unabashed friendliness made strangers just want to pet her.

No one would want to pet Lou now, her front a wash of blood and looking ready to savage anything that got near.

The garage door _groaned_ in its frame, there was the squeal of metal and as Daryl watched the tracks he had secured with cable started to bend.

Daryl hollered for the dog and ran back into the kitchen. Lou was at his heels, and once she was inside Daryl slammed the door shut and locked it before wedging a kitchen chair beneath it. He raced to the kitchen window and parted the blinds.

It looked like half his neighborhood had converged on his front yard, a huge clump against the garage door but a few drifting toward the front door. _Fuck._

He thought quickly—he could try making a run for it, kill any of those things that came at him. He had no idea how many there were or how fast they could be, could he even outrun them? Try sneaking out the back then scaling the privacy fence, but he couldn’t take Lou with him if he did that. _The truck, I need to get the truck out._

 _“_ C’mon girl!” Daryl said, snapping his fingers and racing out of the kitchen and through living room then bounding up the stairs _._ Lou was at his heels as he made his way into their bedroom. He opened the window and started to step out onto the roof when he remembered the Glock in the nightstand. Feeling like an idiot for leaving his rifles behind he ran to grab it, he needed _something_ besides just his crossbow. When he opened the drawer he saw it was gone.

His mind froze for a second, frantically trying to think where it could be. He looked wildly around him, heart pounding. His eyes fell on the top of the dresser on the other side of the room. There was a single framed photograph there, one of Daryl himself. There should have been a second picture next to it, one of Paul.

It was Daryl’s favorite picture of Paul; he’d taken it himself on their trip down to Saint Pete’s for their second anniversary. The memory of the trip flashed through his mind with a clarity so intense he could practically smell the salt from the ocean. They’d stayed in a _fancy_ place, where your room opened up on a little walled patio then went right down to the beach. The picture Daryl had taken of Paul had been on that little patio. Paul was sprawled out in one of the chairs, his feet propped high up against the patio wall. He was shirtless and looking over his bare shoulder at Daryl with his best “come fuck me” expression on his face.

Another, more recent memory came to him then. Where the memory of Florida two years ago was so sharp he practically relived it this memory from less than two days ago was fuzzy and fractured. Downing some Old Crow and grabbing Paul’s photo, getting the Glock out of the nightstand, sitting hunched over in the living room. To do what, fucking shoot himself? He recoiled from the thought, had he been that fucked up? Despite the fact he was in a house surrounded by walking corpses he thought this was the most disturbing thing to happen to him today.

Daryl could hear more noise coming from outside, and remembered that he had things he needed to worry about right here and now, namely stopping those things from breaking into the garage. He would just have to make due with his crossbow. He climbed out onto the roof and turned to call to Lou, she stepped out cautiously through the window, looking like she expected Daryl to yell at her. She’d gotten out on roof a handful of times, if one of them forgot to shut the bedroom window she could push up the screen and jump out to spend a day happily watching people go by in the street.

Now was different, now the street was full of the dead, Daryl had a better view of them from up here. Lou started to bark, her voice booming and savage. Before Daryl could tell her to shut up he watched some peel away from the garage door and head over to their end of the house, heads tilted back and swaying. Daryl aimed his crossbow, then lowered it. He decided to watch them for a bit.

After hours of just that, Daryl was weighing his options. These things didn’t seem smart enough to open a door, if he stayed quiet he could creep in the house for a bit. Wait them out. Or he could lock Lou back up in the house and make a run down the street, see if their one asshole neighbor’s car was still there. The alarm on the dang thing went off in the middle of the night so often you could set a watch to it. On more than one occasion Paul had to talk Daryl out of grabbing one of his rifles and going down the street to take care of business. If Daryl could get to it and set the alarm off it might distract the walkers long enough for him to clear the garage door and get the truck out, and if he couldn’t do that swipe Neighbor Dan’s truck and put as much shit in it as he could and head out.

Before he could do either of these things he became aware of the sound of an engine rattling off in the distance. He almost took no notice of it, there was normally nothing special about a vehicle driving through the neighborhood. Today wasn’t normal, however.

As Daryl looked around he saw a rusted old Ford come barreling down his street. Before the truck reached Daryl’s house the driver slammed on the brakes, making tires squeal. As Daryl watched he revved the engine then peeled down the street straight for him. Some of the walkers drifted toward the truck, it swerved, smashing into a few. One of them was a neighbor Daryl recognized, and as Daryl watched he went under the tires, head popping like an over sized, bloody grape. The truck didn’t even slow, it roared past the house. A few hundred feet down the street the driver slammed on the brakes again, threw the truck in reverse and zoomed back, slowing as it got closer to the house, before stopping.

The walkers converged on the truck. The driver flung the door open, smashing into one and knocking it back, then leapt out. Hehad a shotgun in his hands, and Daryl heard it roar to life. A walker went down with its head missing from the eyebrows up. The driver smashed the butt of the shotgun in another walker’s face. When the way was clear Daryl watched the driver come around the front of the truck and got a good look at him for the first time.

For a second Daryl couldn’t speak. Lou didn’t have that problem, she started barking immediately. The driver whipped his head around, and their eyes met.

“ _Daryl!_ ” he shouted.

“ _Merle?”_ Daryl shouted back in disbelief. Before he could say anything more he saw a walker coming in close behind Merle. His shock vanished and he whipped up his crossbow and let an arrow fly. It hit the walker between the eyes and it went down. More were coming, a lot more, when Daryl looked down his street he saw a fresh wave had been drawn in by the shotgun fire and tire squealing. Merle was surrounded in seconds.

Rational thought vanished and instinct took over Daryl’s mind. He ran to the edge of the roof, swung his legs over, grabbed the edge and flung himself the rest of the way off, dangling by his arms for a split second before letting go. He landed hard, pain shooting up his bad leg, the one he’d broken all those years ago. He shoved the pain aside and ran to Merle, firing off an arrow and taking out a walker.

“What the fuck are you doin’ here?” Daryl yelled out when he reached his brother’s side. He notched an arrow and whipped around to shoot yet another walker.

“Rescuing you, Dummy!” Merle shouted back. There was another blast of the gun.

That was no explanation, Daryl hadn’t seen his brother in over three years at the latter’s insistence and the last Daryl knew he was still in jail. There was no time to ask for clarification, Merle’s firing of the gun was bringing in even more walkers.

“Let’s go, Daryl! Get in the truck!”

Daryl turned and nearly complied before it hit him. He jerked his head up to the roof, Lou was pacing at the edge and barking at him.

Daryl’s heart leapt up into his throat. “Lou! Stay there, girl!” Daryl shouted, and started back for the house.

“ _Daryl! What the fuck are you doing?”_ Merle bellowed.

The horde was growing, there were dozens between him and the house. He fired arrow after arrow.

He felt Merle’s hand clamp around his bicep, heard him shout, “Forget the damn dog, Daryl!”

Things happened too fast after that for him to keep track. Lou saw Merle grab Daryl. To Daryl’s horror it was too much for her, she was barking, then she was jumping down from the roof.

She hit the ground with a yelp, and walkers surrounded her.

Merle was _dragging_ him back to the truck, there were walkers all around them, Merle was fighting them off one-handed using the shotgun as a club.

Daryl tried to pull free from Merle’s grip.He could hear Lou’s panicked barking. “ _Let go of me!”_ he shouted, gathering all his strength to make a final pull for freedom.

Daryl didn’t get a chance. The butt of Merle’s rifle was in his face and everything went black.

**********

The last time Daryl saw his brother was in the visitors’ room of the Clarke County jail nearly three years before the end of the world.

Paul drove Daryl to the jail that morning. Both men were silent most of the way, although Paul kept darting concerned looks at Daryl. The night before he’d told Daryl he didn’t have to do this, and Daryl had calmly disagreed.

The trip to the jail didn’t take near long enough, before Daryl knew it they were pulling into the visitor’s lot. Paul killed the engine and sat silently for a few minutes before he said, “Do you want me to go in with you, or just wait out here?”

“Neither,” Daryl said, not meeting his eyes, “Go on home, I don’t know how long this will take. I can walk to the bus stop after-“

“ _Daryl,”_ Paul interrupted. His voice was so quiet and the tone so gentle it made a lump rise in Daryl’s throat. He raised his head and looked at Paul in the face. His eyes were soft, “I’m not leaving you here to catch a bus back. Take as long as you need, I’ll be right here.”

Daryl didn’t argue, he thought if he said anything he might start blubbering like a little kid. He just swallowed hard and nodded. Paul took his hand and tangled their fingers together. Daryl gripped him tightly, breathing hard for several long minutes. Finally he found his voice and said, “I gotta get moving, check in time’ll be over soon.”

He started to pull away from Paul, fumbling with the car door handle. Before Daryl could open it Paul’s fingers tightened on his own, “Wait, before you go,” he said.

Daryl turned back to him, and Paul laid a gentle hand across his cheek. Pushed some of the hair back from Daryl’s eyes then leaned forward. The kiss was brief, just the gentle slide of Paul’s lips against his own. After he pulled back and pressed their foreheads together. “That was for luck,” he murmured, sliding his fingers around the back of Daryl’s neck and toying with the bit of hair at the nape.

“Thanks,” Daryl said, his voice sounded rough in his own ears. He needed all the luck he could get, later he would think that the only thing that got him through that final awful conversation with Merle was the memory of that kiss.

When Daryl was escorted into the visitors’ room he saw Merle sat at his usual table, staring off into space. The first thing he said when Daryl slid into the chair across from was, “Whoo-ee Darylina, looking extra fancy today. You’n the rest of the gals going out to get your nails did later?”

Daryl felt his cheeks get hot. “Fancy” according to Merle was a clean shirt with buttons and sleeves over jeans without any holes. At one time Daryl would have agreed with him. “Had a meetin’ with the lawyer earlier,” he said. That was true, but that wasn’t why he was dressed “fancy”. He did not give a single goddamned fuck what the bloodsucker thought about him, Daryl hated him all the way down to his guts. He hated all the men Paul had fucked that weren’t him. No, Daryl was dressed “fancy” because while Paul didn’t care what he wore and Daryl didn’t think he was much to look at regardless he still liked making an _effort._ So whenever he stayed over at Paul’s he wore decent clothes, showered regularly, even splashed on some of Paul’s cologne.

“Oh, that big ol’ queer?” Merle chuckled, “How are things goin’ with that?”

Daryl didn’t flinch, but it was a near thing, “Insurance settlement came through.”

Those were the magic words; Merle’s eyes lit up and his ugly smile morphed into something more genuine, “Fuck yeah, baby brother. How much you worth?” Daryl told him, and after a few seconds of stunned silence Merle let out of a whoop of excitement and exclaimed, “Holy _shit!”_

 _“_ I ain’t getting it all,” Daryl said quickly, “The bloodsucker gets dang near _half_ of it, and the hospital is gonna get another chunk.”

“Still,” Merle said, grinning. He leaned back in his chair and chuckled, “Do you know what we can do with that kinda money?”

Daryl felt his guts twist. It was now or never. He swallowed hard and said, “Already decided what I’m doing with what the lawyer and hospital don’t get. First I’m gonna put some aside, for when you get out,” Paul hadn’t been happy about that. They’d never met but he wasn’t fond of Merle and didn’t think Daryl owed him a goddamned thing. He didn’t really try and talk Daryl out of it, though. Daryl loved him for that, along with hundreds of other reasons. “And after that, what’s left, I’m gonna buy a house.”

“We don’t need no house, not right now,” Merle said, waving his hand dismissively in the air, “We got Daddy’s place still, it’ll do ’til I get out.”

Daryl twisted his fingers together. He could feel something inside himself growing small, regressing back into a little boy. This tiny, terrified part of himself wanted to nod and agree. Do what Merle said, lay low at Daddy’s old place and drift around until Merle got out. That same part of him whispered that even though Paul had agreed to move in together he’d get tired of Daryl eventually. They’d only started this _thing_ a few months ago, even if they’d been friends for a whole year before that. It didn’t matter, Paul would wake up and realize that he could do much better than Daryl Dixon. Paul had _fancy_ big city lawyers still so in love with him they were willing to lower themselves and take on a grumpy, penniless bit of white trash on as a client. Daryl ought to forget this foolishness, go back to his life in Sedalia. Wait for Merle to get out. Invest with some of Merle’s “business” partners, start dealing meth himself. Maybe even end up inside jail for a bit. Be nothing.

It was the memory of Paul’s soft kiss earlier that made him repeat firmly, “I’m buyin’ a house. Not one up in Sedalia, one here. In Athens.”

“What the hell for? I ain’t gonna be here forever-“

“I know. But I like it here,” Daryl hesitated, he wanted to leave it at that. But he knew Merle, knew Merle would be on him like a dog on a rat if he didn’t explain further, “My friend Paul, the one I told you about. He’s movin’ in with me. Need a roommate for bills and shit.”

Merle’s grin slid slowly off his face. He stared at Daryl in stunned silence, and any other time Daryl would feel triumphant that he had been able to shut his brother up that quick. Finally the corner of Merle’s lip twisted down into an ugly sneer and he drawled out, “A _roommate,_ huh? _”_ Daryl wanted to look away, wanted to lower his head in submission. Instead he held his brother’s gaze and nodded.

Merle was silent again, and the two brothers stared at each other. Daryl hadn’t spelled out exactly what Paul was to him, but he’d said enough. He wondered if Merle would call him on it, or if he would just sit there and pretend he didn’t know what he’d known for _years_ about Daryl. Merle’s face cycled through a mixture of emotions—anger, disgust, and briefly something looked a little lost and afraid.

“So that’s it then,” his brother said finally, “First chance you get, gonna light out with some _roommate_ and leave old Merle here in the joint?”

Daryl’s heart pounded, “Ain’t like that, and you know it. Fuck, if I’m livin’ in town I can come see you more’n twice a month. Every week if not more.”

Merle snorted, “And when I get out? Not gonna be here forever, little brother.”

“It ain’t that far to Sedalia,” Daryl said, “I been making the trip down here for near two years. I made it with a _broken leg_. And if you wanted to you could even get a place in town.” Paul _definitely_ wouldn’t be cool with that, if Merle lived in town and would just casually pop over for dinner Daryl would give it ten minutes before Paul roundhouse kicked Merle in the face.

“Live _here,_ with all these uppity college brats? Whole place is crawlin’ with candy asses, jigs, and democrats. Must be some _friend,_ this _roommate_ of yours, if you’re willing to put up with that.”

“He’s the best friend I ever had,” Daryl said. It was the truth, before anything else Paul was his friend. Daryl thought that even if the two of them hadn’t started…this thing they were doing he would still want to be close to Paul.

“‘Best friend’,” Merle sneered, “Sound like you’re twelve years old, Darylina. You two like braidin’ each other’s hair and shopping for maxi pads together? He ain’t yer kin, yer _blood._ I am.”

“You are my kin,” Daryl said, “Nothing changes that. Nothing has to change that.”

“You picking him over me changes everything.”

“You’re the one _making_ me pick!” Daryl snapped. The unfairness of it hit him. Paul fucking hated Merle, but he loved Daryl enough to suck it up and accept his place in Daryl’s life.

“Oh am I? Yer lying to yourself if you think so. You ain’t nothing but a joke to him, a freak, redneck trash. He’s probably laughin’ at you behind your back right now, got you all starry-eyed, dressing _fancy,_ buying him a dang _house_. But I ain’t like that, I’ll kick his pansy-ass he tries to say _boo_ to me, and you think he won’t say ‘him or me’ to you? See if it happens, see how fast he scrapes you off his heel like you was _dog shit,_ ” Merle’s voice was raised to nearly a shout at that last word, and Daryl flinched.

“You don’t know shit about him,” Daryl whispered. He was shaking a little, Merle had seen the few chinks in his armor in a few seconds and burrowed in, had spoken aloud thoughts Daryl couldn’t help but have from time to time. That Paul would come to his senses, or that this _thing_ between them was a joke. That Daryl was just another roadside curiosity.

Merle was grinning at him, a shark that smelled blood, “Oooh, did I hit a nerve there, Darylina? Face it, ain’t nobody gonna care about you. ’Cept me.” 

 _He’s out there waiting in the car for me,_ Daryl thought. He’d held Daryl’s hand and kissed him for luck, because he thought he’d _need_ luck talking to his asshole brother. Daryl still had those doubts, was still scared as hell about this thing between them, but he just had to look into Paul’s eyes to know that the other man loved him. “And you did a great job of that, huh Merle? He’s done more for me in this past year than you have in your whole life,” Daryl said.

His words were a thrown grenade, and as Daryl watched he could see them explode across Merle’s face. “Fuck you, you ungrateful little shit. After those years spent making you a man, this is the thanks I get? Let me tell you something, you walk outta here and trot off with your _roommate_ then don’t bother never coming back, you hear?”

There it was, Daryl thought to himself. What he’d been waiting for Merle to say, what he’d been _expecting_ him to say.

_You walk outta here don’t bother never coming back._

Daryl nodded to himself, “Ok Merle,” he said in a low voice, “If that’s how it’s gonna be.” Daryl gathered himself together, and for a second he didn’t know if he’d be able to _physically_ get up and walk away.

 _Just need to get up and walk out, Paul’s in the parking lot, he’ll be there._ Daryl looked his brother in the eye one final time before staring down at the floor. He took a deep breath and got to his feet. Merle made a little noise, like he was about to say something but cut himself off. Daryl didn’t look at him, he turned and walked out of the visiter’s room, then out of the jail. He didn’t look back once.

*******

Daryl came to an unknown amount of time after Merle knocked him out. When he shook out the cobwebs from his mind he realized he was in the bed of the truck flying down the road. He pushed himself up, touching his head. The truck hit a pothole and Daryl nearly lost his balance. He didn’t recognize the road they were on, just that it was far out of the city and the road was empty. He turned around, he could see Merle in the cab of the truck through the rear window. As he watched his brother glanced up into the mirror and their eyes met.

The truck slowed, then came to a stop. Merle turned off the engine and sat there for a moment before climbing out and coming around to the side of the truck. He stood silently in front of Daryl before taking a rag out of the pocket of his vest and handing it to him.

“You’ve got blood on yer face.”

“Where the fuck are we?” Daryl said, taking the rag and wiping his face.

“‘Bout ten or so miles outside of Athens.”

Daryl shook his head, “We need to go back,” he said hoarsely, “Our dog—“

“Biters got your dog, Daryl. Woulda got you too, if I hadn’t’ve throwed you in the truck.”

Daryl stared at Merle. He felt something well up inside him, some horrible, howling grief. _Biters got your dog._ She was Paul’s dog, really. Daryl had been the one to find her, the one to bring her back home, but she had been _Paul’s._ She loved them both but Paul was her favorite, she slept on his side of the bed and would follow him around the house ignoring Daryl completely. Daryl didn’t blame her, he liked Paul better too.

And Daryl had left her to be eaten alive by those things. Paul may be dead but he would never, ever, _ever_ forgive Daryl for that.

“Christ boy, you going to go to pieces over a goddamned _dog?”_ Merle sneered at him.

“Fuck you, Merle,” Daryl spat out.

“Excuse the living shit outta me. Not like I just saved you from a crowd of biters.”

“You _brought_ half of those things _with you!”_

 _“_ Where the fuck you been, baby brother? Your town was _crawling_ in those things.”

Daryl took a deep breath, pushed himself up, and jumped down from the back of the truck. His head spun. Merle had stepped back from him a bit, eyes glued to his face.

“Why’d you come?” Daryl said.

“I told you dummy, someone needed to rescue your worthless ass.”

“Last time we talked you didn’t seem to care much one way or the other ‘bout my worthless ass.”

Merle shrugged, “You’re too sensitive. Speakin’ of, whatever happened to that _roommate_ of yours you liked so well? What was his name? Paulliyana?”

Daryl felt himself grow cold from his heart on out to the rest of his body, “Shut the fuck up,” he said tonelessly.

“Not very fuckin’ ladylike of you, Darylina. He run off?” He studied Daryl, and something dark and satisfied passed over his face, “No, he’s dead. Ain’t he?”

Daryl still had his buck knife strapped this thigh. It was out and in his hand without conscious thought and he was lunging forward. He was still dizzy from the brain scramble Merle had given him earlier, and his brother dodged him easily.

“That how it is?” Merle spat, eying Daryl warily, “I’m your _kin!_ Wasn’t enough, you walking out on me? Now you’re going to stick that knife in me after I saved your danged life?”

Daryl felt his muscles tense. In that moment he knew without a single fucking doubt he was fully capable of shoving the knife clean into his brother’s guts. It was like he’d stepped outside himself, there was nothing inside his mind but static noise.

 _Then what,_ a voice that sounded suspiciously like Paul’s said in his mind, _Slash your damn wrists? See if Merle’s rifle is in the truck and blow your brains out? Give up?_

Daryl took a deep breath. He held the knife out to Merle, adjusting his grip so it was handle first. “Here,” he growled, “Take it, and do it quick.”

Daryl watched as comprehension dawned on his brother’s face, “Are you out of your damn mind?”

“It’s you or me, Merle. Because I will fucking kill you next time you say a damn word about him. So if you don’t wanna die then you best get me first, right now. And if you can’t do that then you need to keep his name outta your mouth.”

Merle didn’t answer at first, just pressed his lips together locked eyes with Daryl. Neither man blinked, and after a few seconds Merle looked away. “Don’t need to get yer panties in a knot,” he muttered. But he didn’t say anything about Paul after that, and eventually Daryl lowered the knife.

“We still need to go back to my house,” Daryl said, “There’s guns, food, and—“ He trailed off. _And our stuff,_ Daryl thought, but couldn’t say out loud. It was stupid to begin with, and Merle would think it was even stupider. But Daryl’s mind was stuck on the house and everything in it, the detritus of two and a half years of living together. The leather jacket Paul got him for Christmas one year. The framed menu from the Sweet Shack Barbecue, where they’d eaten on their way to Savannah for their third anniversary. Chaz’s head on the wall above Paul’s desk. The “ _Go Dawgs!”_ magnet on the fridge Daryl had bought during what Paul jokingly called their first date. The picture of Paul in the Florida sun.

“And what, Daryl?” Merle asked.

Daryl shook his head, “Nothin’.”

“Well I got guns, and we can find food. We need to head for Atlanta, that’s where they’re setting up refugee centers. Away from those biters.”

“How d’you know that?” Daryl asked.

“The guards were movin’ us all down there. How I was able to get out, everything was confusin’ as shit.”

“Why didn’t wait until you got to Atlanta?”

Merle looked at him like he was a fucking simpleton, “I told you, someone needed to look after your worthless ass.”

Daryl couldn’t find anything to say to that. His brother was an asshole but he’d _come back_ , he’d run away from safety to make sure Daryl was ok even after what he’d said in the visitors’ area all those years ago.

 _Him or me,_ Merle had all but said back then. Daryl had made his choice, but in the end it didn’t matter two fucks either way. Paul was dead, even their fucking _dog_ was dead, and going back to the house wasn’t an option.

“Fine,” Daryl said, the words tasting bitter, “Let’s head to Atlanta, then.” Daryl looked down at himself, “I lost my bow,” he said.

“We’ll find you a new one,” Merle said, with the cheerful expression of a pig buried in warm shit. “Let’s go, Dummy. Daylight’s a-wasting.”

Merle headed back for the cab of the truck. Daryl stood there for a moment longer. He glanced down at his left hand, it was curled into a fist. The little winged skull tattoo grinned up at him. _Have you remembered that you’re gonna die yet, Daryl?_

The answer to that was yes, and probably not soon enough.


	6. Paul: Part III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for some sexist and homophobic language.

They’d been in quarantine for ten days when Mateo started crying and wouldn’t stop. Carmen walked him slowly around the length of her cell, alternating between bouncing him and making faces and cradling him to her chest. Nothing worked, at least not for long. She looked ragged and exhausted, and Paul wished he could take a turn. Justine tried taking him, but he just started screaming louder.

“Shut that kid up,” Austin mumbled from his corner of the cell.

“He’s a baby,” Paul snapped, “He can’t help it.” He was tired and his own temper was frayed. He knew it wasn’t Mateo’s fault but that didn’t make his sleep deprivation magically go away. Paul was on edge, they all were. Every day for the past week they had taken someone _away,_ and none of them had come back. Their morning guards had lost their veneer of joking friendliness, something hard and mean in their eyes whenever they looked at the patients.

“Fuck you, faggot,” Austin spat, “SHUT. THAT. FUCKING KID UP!”

“She’s trying,” Justine said, placing her hands on Carmen’s shoulders protectively and straightening up to her considerable full height. She was in her fifties and had the face of a woman used to getting her way. “You being an asshole isn’t helping.”

“Fuck you too, you dried up old bitch,” Austin snarled, then walked over to the chainlink fencing and started beating his fists against it, “ _Shut that fucking kid up, you numb cunt! Shut it up, shut it up-“_

“Stop it!” Paul said, grabbing him by the shoulder. Austin whirled around and started crowding against Paul, thrusting his chest forward.

“Got something to say to me, faggot?” he placed his hands against Paul’s chest and shoved, “Got something to—“

Austin didn’t finish, when he raised his hands to shove again Paul twisted to the side, grabbed him by the wrist while at the same time sweeping his legs out. The move worked perfectly, he knocked Austin right off his feet and he went down hard, face-first and with his wrist trapped firmly in Paul’s hand. His face bounced against the floor and blood spurted out his nose. Paul slammed his foot down between Austin’s shoulders while at the same time yanking his arm up and back. Austin let out a high-pitched scream that rivaled any of Mateo’s.

The takedown took less than ten seconds, and the guards were just now running over and shouting. Paul barely heard them, he was lost in a black rage he hadn’t felt in over fifteen years, since before he started his karate classes. When he got his ass kicked on the regular until one day something in him just snapped. It had been at dinner time in Mcreary house, an older boy had whacked him in the back of the head with a cheerful cry of “Fudge packer!” Paul had jumped up, grabbed the same chair he’d been sitting in, and swung it as hard as he could in the older boy’s face. He went down hard, just like Austin would years later, and Paul raised the chair up over his head and brought it down again and again, he ended up breaking one of the chair’s legs off and it had taken three other boys to pull him away.

Perversely enough it was the karate lessons that had tamed his anger, the more he studied and practiced the fewer urges he had to get into an actual fight. He’d been in a few, of course, but had never started them and always ended them quickly with the minimum amount of force he needed. But standing over Austin, a kid who was an asshole but just scared underneath all that, and Paul wanted to fucking _beat his face in._ Paul was exhausted and terrified and angry, he’d been locked up in a dirty cell like a damned animal, he had no fucking idea what was going on in the outside world, he hadn’t spoken to Daryl in eleven fucking days and didn’t know if he was ok.

The guards opened the door to the cell and Paul let go of Austin’s arm and stepped back, hands raised. It was Findley and Stabler, their evening guards who seemed like they might have actual consciences. Findley pushed Paul back while Stabler knelt down to check Austin. In the next cell Mateo continued to scream.

“Hell’s going on in here?” Findley asked, looking from Mateo to Austin and back to Paul.

“He started yelling at Carmen, got violent.”

“ _He_ got violent?” the guard said skeptically.

“Just a bit,” Paul said, “He shoved me, and I took him down”

Findley studied Paul’s face. He was about Paul’s age, a handsome black guy with large, intelligent eyes. He took a deep breath and said, “I understand things are tense right now, but starting fights won’t help anybody.”

“How about you let us _go_ then?” Carmen spat from her cage a few yards away, “This isn’t right! My baby won’t stop crying because he’s been locked up in this dirty place for almost two weeks!”

Sergeant Findley exchanged a glance with Stabler, who was still knelt down over Austin. It lasted only a second or two but Paul did not like it at all. Findley had a better poker face but Stabler looked on the verge of panic.

“Ma’am,” Findley said slowly to Carmen, “I know this is difficult. But with the situation happening right now, you’re both better off in here. We’ll see about getting the little man something to calm him down—“

Carmen jerked away and turned her back to him before he could finish, snarling out, “ _Hijo de puta.”_

Findley dropped his eyes and didn’t finish talking, instead turned back to Paul, “Can I trust you not to mess with that guy again?”

“No,” Paul said, too pissed off and tired to bother lying, “She’s right you know, I can see it on your face. You know this is fucked up. So does your buddy. _We’re not sick._ ”

“We don’t know that yet,” Findley said, face closing off, “Look, I’ll move this guy to another cell, give you both a chance to cool off. Everybody stays calm, we’ll get this over with faster.”

 _Bullshit,_ Paul thought. Arguing further would be pointless; Findley might not think this was right but he still didn’t look like he was going to do anything about it. He gave the soldier a tight-lipped nod and turned away. Findley sighed, and he and Stabler escorted Austin out of the cell, locking the door behind them.

Mateo continued to cry, sounding weaker. Paul let out an exhausted sigh, going to his sleeping bag and stretching out. _Fuck, Daryl, wherever you are I hope it’s better this._ The soldier’s ominous words about them being better off penned up like cattle than outside kept replaying through his brain. He pushed the thought away, Daryl was a fucking _fighter,_ he would be the last man standing. That tenacity was one of the things Paul loved most about him.

His mind went back to the early days of their relationship, back before they got together and Paul didn’t think they would even be friends. He’d underestimated Daryl back then, he’d learned better over the years.

**********

Three weeks after dropping Daryl Dixon off at his sadass shack and saying what he thought was their last goodbye Paul got the slip in his mailbox notifying him that he had a package waiting in the apartment office. He had no idea what the hell it could be, he hadn’t ordered anything from amazon recently and that was the only place he got packages from. He was puzzled even further when he retrieved it, the package clearly wasn’t from any store. The box had been home packed, wrapped in layers of strapping tape and the shipping label was hand-printed. There was no return address, but the postmark was from Sedalia, Georgia.

Bursting with curiosity, he took it back to his little one-bedroom apartment, sat the box on the kitchen table and fetched a knife to cut through the layers of packing tape. When he opened the box he saw it was full of crumpled up newspaper. He pulled out a wad of it and nearly had a damn heart attack when he was confronted with a pair of glassy red eyes and a mouth full of fangs.

“The hell,” he muttered to himself while waiting for his heart to slow down. Paul thought there was good chance a few years of his life had just been shaved off. He pushed aside more of the newspaper, wondering just what the fuck had been sent to him, and tugged the object out.

It was the taxidermied head of a nearly hairless animal whose species Paul couldn’t immediately determine. Some sort of dog; it had large bat-like ears, grayish skin, and its lips had been curled back into a snarl over teeth that were bigger than any dog’s should be. It was mounted on a wooden plaque that had the word _Chupacabra_ engraved on top _._

Paul sat the head of the “chupacabra” down on his kitchen chair and rooted around in the package until he found a yellow envelope with his name scrawled on the front. Inside were two wrinkled twenties and a short note written in the same untidy scrawl:

_Paul,_

_This is not a real chupacabra. My buddy is an asshole & likes to make hunting trophies & made this when he fucked up a fox skin. Don’t know if it counts as one of your “curiousities” but thought you’d get a Kick Out Of It. The money is for the groceries._

_-Daryl_

Paul realized he was grinning so hard it hurt. He couldn’t tell which part of the note delighted him most. He picked up the “chupacabra” for closer study; it was ugly as fuck and Paul loved it. He carried it into the living room, looking around thoughtfully.

A visitor to Paul Rovia’s apartment would have been surprised at just how bare it was—a couch, a writing desk with a chair tucked into the corner, and a few overloaded bookshelves. None of the furniture matched and everything except for his desk had been scavenged during move out week on campus. He didn’t have a TV, preferring to watch movies on his laptop or portable DVD player. There was no art on the walls aside from a stylized map of the various neighborhoods in Chicago pinned above his couch. After a few moments of consideration he went to his desk. On the wall above it was a nail from a previous tenant, it had been there long enough it had been painted over more than once. He hung the chupacabra on it so it was staring down at the desk, eyes bulging and mouth opened comically wide. It looked as though it couldn’t believe Paul was fucking around instead of working. Paul thought he might have to move it eventually, since he didn’t know if he would ever reach a point where the sight of it wouldn’t make him want to burst out laughing.

 _It’s an apology,_ Paul thought to himself. _Fuck, it’s more than that._ Overpaying him for the groceries was an apology, the chupacabra was a sign Daryl still wanted to be friends. He could be reading into it, but he thought not. Question was, did Paul still want to be friends with _Daryl_? He honestly didn’t know. The words _mouthy little queer_ came back to him, followed by _don’t make a pass at me_.

Paul sighed to himself; he’d really liked Daryl. He was good guy, and though their acquaintance had been brief and largely a result of circumstance Paul had enjoyed himself more than he had in a while. He hadn’t made many real friends since coming to Georgia, just a few guys he’d hooked up with and his coworkers. It wasn’t a great hardship; he preferred to be alone. A line from a story he’d read as a kid came to him “ _I am the cat who walks by himself, and all places are alike to me.”_ That summed up Paul Rovia’s outlook on life pretty well.

Still, what would it hurt, really? Daryl lived an hour away in BFE, it’s not like Paul couldn’t detach himself later if he wanted to. Before he could overthink it too much he pulled out his cell and pushed the menu button. The day Paul drove Daryl home he had the other man give him his contact info, he hadn’t deleted it from his phone even if he was angry at Daryl. He pushed the “call” button and waited while the phone dialed through.

The phone rang, and rang, and rang. Paul’s heart sank—he knew Daryl didn’t have an answering machine or caller ID. It was also possible he’d missed a payment due to being unable to work and had his service shut off. Paul was resigning himself to trying again later when there was a click and a voice snapped, “Fuck d’ya want?”

“Well, that’s no way to answer the phone. What if it was Publisher’s Clearing House calling to offer you a million bucks?” Paul said after a moment of surprised silence.

There was another beat of silence, then, “Paul? That you?”

“Yeah. I got your package,” Paul said, glancing at the chupacabra above his desk and grinning a little, “How do you know it’s not a real chupacabra? Maybe your buddy was lying to you.”

“Real ones have boxier heads. So, y’liked it?” Daryl asked, his voice sounding forcibly casual.

“I love it, I’ve named him Chaz and put him over my desk. Thanks,” Paul said, then, “It was nice to hear from you regardless.”

“Good deal,” Daryl paused, “I’m sorry ‘bout what I said. You’re a good guy and you did right by me, when I was laid up.”

That was quite a few words by Daryl Dixon standards. “I’ve gotten worse from guys I thought were friends. You hit a nerve.”

“Well, it was a dumb thing to say. You’re the first gay guy I’ve met, is all.”

“I doubt I’m the first, you just didn’t know it,” Paul replied with a little snort, “Look, I think you’re a good guy too. In a totally platonic, not gay type of way.”

“Oh. Good,” Daryl said, sounding a little awkward but relieved.

Any lingering anger with Daryl vanished. Paul glanced over at Chaz the Chupacabra and smiled again, “When you come down to visit your brother next give me a call, we can go for beers.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Daryl said. He sounded relieved and happy, and Paul realized that he felt the same way himself. As he hung up the phone after making his goodbyes he found himself hoping that Daryl would actually follow through.

********

Daryl did follow through, and sooner than Paul would have thought. Little more than a week after Paul got the chupacabra in the mail Daryl gave him a call.

“Gonna visit Merle on Saturday. Want to go for beers after?”

“Sure,” Paul said, “How are you getting down here? You’re not driving yet, are you?”

“I am. Put my leg in the passenger seat, use the left one for the pedals.”

“Holy fuck, is that legal?”

“Dunno. No one’s pulled me over yet.”

“Well, try not to fucking kill yourself. When do you want to meet?”

“Visitin’ hours end at about five or thereabouts. You pick the place, I dunno what’s around here.”

When Saturday came Paul decided on the Georgia Bar, giving Daryl directions when the other man called from the prison’s pay phone. Turned out to be a good choice, when Daryl walked in he was visibly relieved by the place’s low-key atmosphere. He was still using crutches but was moving around a lot better than when Paul saw him last.

It was before the dinner rush and _long_ before any students would come stumbling in from cooler bars, so the place was mostly empty. Paul liked coming there, it was a simple dive bar in a college town where every other place seemed to only serve shit like artisanal vegan cocktails. It was nice to go to a bar that had zero pretensions. They ordered beers (Sweetwater for Paul, Budweiser for Daryl) and sat down in a corner booth away from everything.

“How’s your leg doing?” Paul asked after exchanging initial pleasantries.

“Doc said it’s healin’ fine. Hafta go back around Christmas time to get all the screws taken out,” Daryl shrugged, “Don’t hurt much no more, just at night sometimes.”

“Well I’m glad to hear it,” Paul said. Remembering what Daryl had said about driving with his leg in the passenger seat he asked,“So where’d you get the car?”

“Borrowed it from a friend of Merle’s. Some money, too, haven’t been able to work.”

“A friend of Merle’s,” Paul said with a frown. He tried to think of a diplomatic way to say the next bit, but he decided there really wasn’t one. So he just asked, “You’re not gonna get any trouble by borrowing money from Merle’s friend, are you?”

“He’s another drug dealer, if that’s what yer gettin’ at,” Daryl shrugged, “But he ain’t asking for nothing but to be paid back with interest when I get my settlement.”

That did little to ease Paul’s mind. He wanted to make Daryl the same offer (without the interest part) but he had a feeling the man would turn him down flat. “Well, be careful.”

“Don’t need to tell me,” Daryl said, frowning into his beer, “Merle’s goin’ a bit stir crazy, and he’s only been in a year,” Daryl sighed, “I talked to your lawyer friend,” his ears turned pink and he darted a quick glance at Paul’s face. He remembered telling Daryl that Tim was his fuckbuddy, and even though Daryl had apologized for what he said Paul braced himself for some more ignorant bullshit. But all Daryl said was, “Wonderin’ if I get Merle a better lawyer, could get him out of there faster.”

“What did Tim say?” Paul asked.

“Said he could recommend me somebody, but given Merle’s situation all I’d get was ‘nonstop ass rape instead of results’,” Daryl said moodily.

Paul’s mouth twisted in distaste, he had no doubt that Tim had phrased it exactly that way, “He’s kind of a dick, yeah. But he knows his stuff. If he thought there was a chance it would do something he’d tell you.”

“Yeah,” Daryl said, staring at his drink and fidgeting, “I just feel…I dunno. Like I should at least give it a try.”

“I get that he’s your brother, but it’s not on you to get him out of the mess he put himself in.”

“He looked out for me,” Daryl said stubbornly, “When I was a kid. I owe him.”

Paul thought carefully about what to say next. Daryl hadn’t said much about his brother during Paul’s visits to the hospital, but what little he did say had given Paul a negative opinion of Merle. “Look, you’re the only one who decides what to do with your money when you get it. Just…if you decide _not_ to gamble on a lawyer you shouldn’t feel guilty. Your brother made his own choices, and it’s not like you won the lottery. It’s because you got _hurt_ and can’t work and owe an arm and a leg to the hospital.”

“From what your…friend…the lawyer said, I should get enough to cover the hospital, work, and still have a chunk left,” Daryl argued.

“Well, at the very least you don’t have to decide that now. Wait until you’ve gotten your shit taken care of first. How long did Tim say this thing would take?”

“More’n a year, or even longer if I hold out for more cash,” Daryl said, sounding frustrated, “I can’t wait too long, though.”

 _Fuck it,_ Paul thought, “Hey, if you need a loan or anything I don’t charge interest and my criminal record is sealed because I was a juvenile.”

Daryl gave him a slanted look before going back to studying his beer, “‘Preciate it,” he mumbled to it, “But I’ll be fine.” Before Paul could press him he changed the subject, “I like this place. Almost never come into town, just pass through on my way to the jail.”

“We’ll have to do it again sometime. I like it here too, the whole city. There’s stuff going on, but not too much. Perfect amount.”

“Only thing I know ‘bout what goes on here is the football team. Me ’n Merle was plannin’ on catching a game sometime, ‘fore he got locked up,” Daryl said.

Paul let out a pleased little noise, “Yeah? Well if you still want to catch a game I got a friend at work who said he could get me tickets. Season is starting soon.”

“You like football?” Daryl asked, sounding surprised.

Paul rolled his eyes, “Yeah, but don’t tell anyone. I don’t want to get thrown out of the gay cabal.”

“You know, I said sorry, you don’t need to be a fucking asshole,” Daryl muttered, cheeks turning red, “‘Sides, don’t act like you wasn’t surprised I could read first time I asked for a book.”

That gave Paul a guilty little start. He hadn’t been surprised Daryl could read, or even that he _wanted_ things to read, but he couldn’t deny that every time the man showed flashes of his intelligence it caught him off guard. He remembered the first time he visited Daryl in the hospital, calling Daryl a roadside curiosity. He’d been joking and Daryl hadn’t been offended, but hadn’t Paul made a few unfounded judgements himself? He gave a rueful little sigh, “You know, that’s fair. I’m sorry if I ever said anything that made you think I thought you were…”

“Redneck trash?”

“Well, I wouldn’t put it that way, but yeah.”

Daryl shrugged, “S’fine.”

“You’re the first redneck I’ve met is all,” Paul said playfully.

“Now I know _that_ ain’t true, if you been livin’ here for more’n a year. Still Georgia even if it’s a college town.”

Paul grinned, “Yeah, you got me there. But going back to the previous subject. I’m more of a basketball kinda guy, but it’s like a law that if you live in Athens you have to support the football team.”

“Basketball,” Daryl said skeptically.

“Hey, I’m from Indiana originally. The law _there_ is that you must love basketball.”

“How you feel about baseball?”

“Baseball shouldn’t even be considered a sport,” Paul said contemptuously.

“Godless fucking un-American commie bastard piece of shit,” Daryl deadpanned.

“Soccer is better,” Paul continued.

“Ain’t listening to this,” Daryl said.

“ _Women’s_ soccer,” Paul continued, “Especially if we’re talking US teams. Our men’s teams are pathetic.”

“That’s it, changed my mind ‘bout bein’ friends with you. Don’t want to be seen in public with you.”

Paul felt a flush of warmth at those words. “So we’re friends, then?”

“Guess so,” Daryl responded. Both men went quiet afterward, but it was a comfortable quiet.

Paul swallowed the last of his beer and said, “Do you want to get another round then throw some darts?”

“Hell yeah.”

 

********

Two weeks later was the first game of the season, and even though Daryl had been vague about it Paul went ahead and got tickets anyway. Fortunately when he called Daryl the other man was enthusiastic about coming, even after Paul told him not to feel obligated, he could find someone else to go if it was too much trouble.

The day of the game was gorgeous, September and still warm but not so hot Paul felt like he was going to die. The game was at noon, but Daryl showed up at his apartment at eleven. When Paul opened the door and saw him he was taken aback—Daryl was dressed up a little. Well, by Dixon standards at least. He was wearing a clean checked shirt that actually fit him and a pair of jeans that weren’t falling apart. He looked like he might have even shaved recently. Paul absurdly felt a little underdressed in his faded Georgia Bulldogs t-shirt and cargo pants.

“Come in,” Paul said, stepping aside, “You’re early.”

Daryl shrugged, “Didn’t know how big a hassle getting into town would be.” His eyes swept over Paul’s spartan apartment, lighting up when he saw the chupacabra above Paul’s desk. “You really did hang it up,” he said, sounding pleased.

“Of course I did,” Paul said with a grin, “I like having Chaz there, I feel like he’s judging my work ethic. Keeps me honest.” Daryl let out a snort of laughter at that. “Make yourself at home,” Paul said, “We’ve got a bit before we need to catch the bus.”

*********

Their seats weren’t great but that didn’t really matter. Daryl seemed excited, he stopped by a merch booth on the way to their section while Paul grabbed them drinks. When he came back carrying a bucket sized stadium beer in both hands he saw Daryl had bought a black magnet with “GO DAWGS!” emblazoned in red. “Cheapest thing they had,” Daryl explained.

They made it to their seats a few minutes before kickoff, the crowd buzzing with excitement. Paul hadn’t been lying to Daryl when he said he enjoyed sports, but he couldn’t deny this was his favorite part of it. The energy of tens of thousands of people all gathered for one reason, you could get _drunk_ off of it. Impossible to feel broody or alone.

He glanced over at Daryl, who was sipping his beer and trying to look at everything at once. _I’m not alone this time,_ he thought with a burst of pleasure, _I’ve got a friend._

_*********_

It was the third quarter and Georgia was up by 34 points and Kentucky hadn’t even scored yet. Paul and Daryl had slurped down several bucket-sized stadium beers each, and Paul was more than a little buzzed.

“This isn’t a game, it’s a slaughter,” Paul said, “I can’t even enjoy that we’re winning.”

“I’ll just have to do it for the both of us.”

A few minutes later Kentucky had possession of the ball and Paul was on his feet cheering, “ _Go! Go! You can do it! Yes! Yes!”_ He got a few “boos” from the Georgia supporters surrounding them and hollered, “Fuck off, it’s just mean at this point!”

“You’re gonna get your ass kicked and I ain’t gonna do a thing to stop it,” Daryl drawled from his seat.

“I’m a third degree black belt, I can take care of myself,” Paul said, taking a swig of beer. His coordination at that point was a little off, so he ended up spilling a some down his front. “Not a word, Dixon,” Paul muttered, sitting back down.

“Wasn’t gonna say nothing,” Daryl said. He was grinning a Cheshire-cat grin. Paul had never seen him smile like that before, it lit up his whole face. Seeing him in the sunshine—all his bruises faded and bandages removed, wearing decent clothes, and smiling like a little kid— and it suddenly hit Paul that Daryl was _attractive._ Daryl wasn’t the sort of guy who normally did it for him, but Paul couldn’t deny the guy was actually pretty…well, _hot._ He was handsome in a rough-hewn redneck way, with cheekbones that could cut glass, a straight nose, and square jaw. He had a good body, with broad shoulders, a narrow waist, and strong arms. If Paul saw him in a gay bar he might try and buy him a drink, maybe go home with him. He pushed that thought away, it’s not like he’d ever encounter Daryl Dixon in a gay bar. Being friends was good enough anyways.

***********

Getting out of the stadium was a pain in the ass, Daryl could only walk so far before he needed a rest. On the bright side since he was still using his crutches they were able to cut in the queue for the bus. When they got on Daryl was able to get a handicapped seat while Paul was forced to stand in the aisle crushed by a gaggle of frat guys. Thankfully where Paul wanted to eat wasn’t very far, normally he would have walked it but thought it might be a bit much for Daryl.

Cali n Tito’s was a quirky little place that was done up to look like a shack in some generic latin american country. Inside was decorated by fake parrots and rusted sculptures of pirates.

“It’s cash only,” Paul told Daryl unnecessarily. He didn’t think the man even owned a credit card.

“I’m buyin, you got the tickets,” Daryl said when they reached the counter.

Paul wanted to protest, he knew Daryl was fucking broke and probably still borrowing money from his brother’s lowlife friends. But the look on Daryl’s face was one that would take no arguments, so Paul just shut his mouth and vowed to slip a twenty in the other man’s jacket pocket before he left. “You sure?”

“S’fine,” he said, squinting at the menu, “I don’t know what half this shit is,” Daryl muttered.

“Get the Cuban sandwich with steak,” Paul said, figuring you couldn’t go wrong feeding a Georgia boy something with a ton of meat and cheese. Daryl was skeptical but ordered it all the same, while Paul got a couple of fish tacos.

They grabbed their food and went outside to eat, enjoying the early fall sunshine. The outside was done up to look like a beach. There was sand a few palm trees, and the table Paul and Daryl chose was made from an old rowboat.

Daryl took a bite of his sandwich and an odd look passed over his face. “What d’you think?” Paul asked, raising his eyebrows.

The other man chewed slowly and swallowed, “This is the best goddamn thing I ever tasted,” he said, then started _wolfing_ his sandwich down.

Paul laughed, “Should go down to Tampa sometime, check out Ybor city. Cuban food there will blow your hair back.”

“Let me get the car,” Daryl said in between bites. “What is it, four hundred miles or so?”

“Something like that,” Paul said, smiling a little.

When Daryl finished his food he wiped his mouth, then sucked the tips of his fingers clean one at a time. “What?” he asked, noticing Paul’s stare.

“Nothing,” Paul said quickly, taking a bite out of one of his tacos. His insides felt a little funny. “I was going to get a piña colada, do you want one?”

“Do I look like a giant pussy to you?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Paul replied, “But you do look like someone who thinks denying yourself the pleasures of _sugar_ makes you badass or some nonsense.”

“Get me a beer if they have ‘em,” Daryl said, “None of that craft beer shit you drink neither.”

“They only serve piña coladas, everything else is BYOB. I promise not to tell anyone you enjoyed one.”

Daryl rolled his eyes and gave a curt little nod, “Fine, whatever.”

In the end Daryl was only able to choke down a few sips of his drink before pushing it away in disgust. Paul cheerfully finished it off himself, feeling himself slide just over the line between “tipsy” and “drunk.” Part of it, he thought, was just that he was enjoying himself so much.

“You good to drive home?” Paul said a few hours later when they got off the bus in front of his apartment, “I’ve got the couch. It used to belong to a frat house but I bought one of those couch covers so you shouldn’t get the clap.”

“I’ll be fine,” Daryl said.

Paul bit his tongue to keep from asking Daryl to call him when he got home. Instead he just said, “It was fun, today. We should do it again.”

Daryl studied him in the dim light, his face unreadable. “Alright,” Daryl said finally. He studied Paul for a minute longer than got into his car. Paul watched him drive away, feeling warm and happy.

When Paul got back into his apartment he sprawled out on his couch, the room spinning a little. He was just that side of drunk, not so bad he’d get a hangover tomorrow but enough that just passing out on the couch sounded like a good idea. He stretched out, the memory of Daryl sucking his fingertips playing behind his eyes. He sighed and rubbed his face, shaking his head ruefully at himself. He opened his eyes and looked over at his desk, at Chaz staring down at him with his mouth agape in astonishment.

“Oh, mind your own damn business,” Paul muttered.

***********

Paul had dozed off for a few minutes, lost in his memories of what he would later jokingly refer to as “their first date”. Something jerked him awake, and he pushed himself up. At first he thought it was a noise before he realized it was the opposite of that. Mateo had stopped crying. When he looked over to their cell he saw that Findley had been good to his word about something to quiet the baby down. He saw that they had acquired a plush toy turtle with a hard plastic shell that projected floating blue stars across the floor and the walls. A soft, tinkly lullaby was coming from it.

 _We need to get out of here,_ Paul thought to himself as he studied Carmen’s exhausted face. He was too tired to really articulate that thought, before he knew it he was slipping back down into his memory-tinged dreams.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't care about football in the slightest, so don't bother to tell me if I made any mistakes. 
> 
> I created a pinterest board for this fic, you can find the inspiration for Chaz the Chupacabra on it as well as some other things. 
> 
> https://www.pinterest.com/jacobinemugatu/ripples-on-a-black-shore/


	7. Daryl: Part IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for some racism and homophobia.

The route to Atlanta was full of blocked roads, panicked people, and the dead. A few people had set up camps by the side of the road after being stuck for however long. When the two brothers stopped to investigate they found the entire place had been destroyed by walkers. There was still stuff worth taking, some sleep bags, lanterns, and other useful gear.

“Where the hell we going?” Daryl asked when he realized where they were. They’d gone almost completely due south since leaving Athens, and not all of that could be justified by the road blocks.

“Atlanta,” Merle said, “But we gotta make a stop first.”

Daryl felt his stomach sink, “Where at?”

“Fontana,” Merle said.

Daryl had expected that answer but it still pissed him off, “What the hell _for?_ Sure you can find any shit like that you need on the way—“

“Listen, Dummy,” Merle said, “It ain’t just my stash, it’s weapons, food, all _kinds_ of shit. And my stash ain’t just ‘shit’ it’s antibiotics, pain pills. Shit we _need.”_

Daryl bit his tongue and looked out the window. Fontana was where Merle’s gang resided; the hub of all their drug activity. Back before he went to jail Merle rode down and back up to Sedalia a few times a month, making stopovers in Athens and elsewhere to sell his shit. Daryl had never liked the Savage Sons, even before his time with Paul had knocked out a most of his bullshit ideas. Those motherfuckers were fucking crazy. Militia types hoarding guns and drugs and talking about the upcoming white genocide. Everrett, Merle’s top cohort, had a swastika tattooed on his face, a twitchy grin, and an unsettling way of staring at you.

Hanging out with that group was harrowing, in the back of Daryl’s mind was always this pulsing fear, a panicky voice babbling, _if they knew, if they knew what you were they’d kill you, Merle would probably let them, join in, he’s all you got, if they knew, if they knew-_

Daryl swallowed down those old hurts, it was like swallowing acid. He glanced at his brother hunched over the steering wheel. He felt oddly guilty for thinking that of Merle in the past. Merle had come back for him after everything, after Daryl had spelled out in as many words what he was.

“We ain’t stayin’ long,” Daryl said.

“Of course we ain’t,” Merle said, “we’re gonna grab my stash and anything else we find. Except… one of those sons of bitches was the one that snitched on me. If I see that fucker I’ll take a few minutes to knock his teeth in, but after that we get moving.”

“Fair ‘nuff, bro,” Daryl answered.

******

Outside of Fontana they found an abandoned gas station that miraculously hadn’t been looted yet. The two brothers broke in, then split up so they could grab everything edible from canned food down to candy. Daryl was moving from aisle to aisle and shoving stuff indiscriminately into a duffle bag when his hand closed on a familiar green wrapper and it was like the needle being ripped from a record player. He forgot all about Merle in the aisle beside him, his brother was running his mouth about something, laughing. Daryl didn’t hear him, he was holding the green bag of Sour Patch Kids and trying not to fall to pieces.

Paul had a bit of a sweet tooth, one that Mr Healthy rarely indulged in, too busy forcing Daryl to eat his greens and to stop smoking. But he had certain _weaknesses,_ and it was always for the most disgusting little kid shit that no one over the age of ten should touch. Pure sugar spun into various shapes—Nerds, Pixy Stix, Skittles, Starbursts. But his absolute favorite were these godawful Sour Patch Kids, during the Halloween season temptation was too much for him and he would buy bags of the shit “for trick-or-treaters” that he would always finish off himself before the big night. Kissing him during the month of October was a game of Russian Roulette, Daryl would put his mouth on him and depending on the day get blasted by the too-sweet taste that clung stubbornly to Paul’s tongue.

Without really thinking why, Daryl tore the bag open and shook a few out into his palm. What the hell were these things supposed to be shaped as? They were just lumpy little bricks, coated in sour sugar that made it feel like your mouth was being dissolved by acid. He put one in his mouth and was overwhelmed by the painful tang of the sour sugar then the sickening sweetness. He spat it out on the floor, then dropped the rest of them alongside it. He spat several times but could still taste it, and the tip of his tongue was tingling painfully.

Daryl remembered that he bought a fuckload of this type shit only a few days ago when he was on his supply run; thinking it would cheer Paul up. The plastic Wal-Mart bag was still on the passenger seat of the truck back in their garage.

Anger lashed through him without warning, a dark and savage _rage_ that burned away rational thought. He raised his leg back and kicked the little green bag down the aisle, bits of candy flying out. He swung around and kicked the candy shelf so hard he snapped away the plastic rack, causing a mini avalanche of candy. He kicked it again, and the shelf tipped back.

Before it could right itself Daryl slammed into, knocking the entire shelf over. It landed with a crash, landing spilling out all over the floor.

“What the _fuck?”_ a voice shouted. Daryl shook himself and looked up, Merle was there, face white and eyes bulging.

Daryl didn’t answer, just stood there as his breath came out in harsh bursts.

“Hell’s got into you?” Merle asked.

Daryl didn’t answer, just shook his head. He looked across at the door they’d broken open to get into the store. He could see their truck in the parking lot, and the road behind it. A small knot of the dead were stuffing toward the store, drawn in by the racket. Still not saying anything to Merle, Daryl pulled his knife out and went out to deal with them.

******

Hartigan’s Bar hadn’t changed in the five years since Daryl had seen it. Even the general destruction of the rest of Fontana seemed to fit with its shabbiness. The street side marquee read “BORDER PATROL DRINK FREE! WETBACKS R CRIMINALS IF U HIRE ONE UR TOO!” Underneath were a Confederate battle flag and a black and white POW/MIA banner. The gravel parking lot was deserted, when the brothers reached the door they found it locked up tight. That barely slowed Merle down.

“Keep an eye out,” Merle muttered. He was carrying the shotgun, he’d given Daryl another one of his rifles. The brothers crept cautiously through the bar.

The place was dim and shadowy, the blacked over windows letting in little light. Daryl just make out another Confederate flag stretched behind the bar, and dangling next to it on a makeshift noose was an old stuffed Mr. Bim the monkey. Some wit had written “ _Obama ’08”_ his yellow shirt.

Suddenly Daryl’s mind was elsewhere, in a roadside bar outside Sedalia that was nearly identical to Hartigan’s. Different slogans on the walls and on the outside sign, but the same in essence: if you weren’t a straight white man, and the right _kind_ of straight white man, you were less than dirt. One in particular that Daryl could never stop looking at: Two stick figure men, like the sort used to mark a restroom, fucking doggie-style. They were surrounded by a red circle with an angry red slash through it. Printed underneath was “AIDS IS GOD’S CURE FOR HOMOS”. He’d been twenty-two at the time, obediently following Merle around like he was still doing twenty years later. There were women grinding on the dance floor with big hair and bigger tits.

“That one keeps eyin’ you, baby brother,” Merle said. Daryl jumped and Merle laughed, “She’d probably pop your cherry if you asked real nice.”

“Ain’t a virgin,” Daryl muttered, face turning hot. He wasn’t lying, he’d had sex twice by then. Both times had been extremely disappointing, a lot of mess and awkwardness.

“Don’t use it it’ll fall off,” Merle said, grinning and turning back to the women, one seemed to be looking back at Merle. She had red hair that had come out of a bottle and too much makeup. “Come on Darylina, let’s go talk to some of those gals.” Daryl shifted uncomfortably, the words AIDS IS GOD’S CURE FOR HOMOS loomed large in his mind.

Daryl’s attention was drawn back to the present by a flicker of moment out of the corner of his eye.

Daryl spun around and brought the rifle to his shoulder, registering the shadowy outline of a man his arm raised high, holding what looked like an empty whiskey bottled.

When Daryl raised his gun the man stumbled back and hollered,“Don’t shoot!” Daryl almost unloaded on the idiot when the bottle he’d been planning to use to brain Daryl fell to the ground and shattered.

“Hands up!” Daryl barked.

“They’re up, they’re up!”

Merle was by his side, regarding Daryl’s would-be assailant. The light was too dim for Daryl to recognize him, but Merle had no such trouble.

“Why Ashley Wilcox, that you?” Merle said, voice cheerful and fake. Daryl remember Ashley Wilcox, a big, fleshy guy with nothing between his ears but empty space.

There was a stunned silence, then, “Merle? Merle _Dixon?_ That you?”

“No Ashley, it’s the ghost of Christmas fucking past. Bet you didn’t never expect to see me again.”

“It wasn’t me that snitched on you,” Ashley said quickly.

“T’weren’t Everrett or Boyd,” Merle said. He sounded happy as a kid at Christmas rather than angry. “Where are the dynamic duo?”

“Dead,” Ashley whispered, “I reckon they’re dead.”

“I reckon yer a lying sack of shit,” Merle said.

“I swear!” Ash said, eying Merle’s gun nervously. “We was at the bank, downtown. Was gonna try and get some of the cash while everyone is running around like headless chickens, and…” he swallowed hard, and when he spoke again he was barely audible, “There was hundreds of ‘em. I barely got out, Ev and Boyd…”

“You ran like the yellow sack of shit you are, just like you snitched on me like the yellow sack of shit you are—“

“Merle, get on with it and knock his teeth out so we can get the fuck outta here.”

“Oh, hi Daryl,” Ash said, “Didn’t recognize you with the long hair, how you been—"

Merle whipped his rifle up, smashing it into Ash’s mouth. Daryl thought he saw a tooth go flying. Ash went down, hard, and didn’t so much as twitch.

“That was just as satisfyin’ as I thought it would be,” Merle said.

“Let’s get outta here,” Daryl said, “He was using a damned _bottle_ to defend hisself, he don’t have no guns or nothing—“

“Ev and Boyd do,” Merle said meditatively, “And they’re at the bank.”

“He said there were hundreds of them walkers, that’s why he ran off.”

“Well, we’ll just have to do somethin’ about that, won’t we?” Merle was grinning, and he punched Daryl in the arm. “C’mon, got an idea.”

******

“Where the hell did you get all this?” Daryl asked as he looked through Merle’s sack of fireworks.

“I grabbed them at the gas station, Dummy,” Merle said, flicking Daryl in the forehead with his index finger, “While you was having your hissy fit.”

“Fuck you,” Daryl said, then, “So what’s the plan?”

“The abominations is distracted by noise and lights. We wait until it starts to get dark, one of us heads for the bank, the other ‘un waits a bit and sets these babies off. Draw away the abominations.”

Daryl shook his head, “Or draw _in_ all the walkers in a ten mile radius.”

“Well Dummy, don’t stick ‘round for that! Tear outta here soon as the fuses lit. We’ll meet on the other side of town.”

“So it’s me that’s gonna stay behind while you get yourself killed?”

“Take more’n a couple hundred of those things to kill Ol’ Merle,” his brother said.

******

Merle’s plan worked just how he said it would. Daryl lit off the fireworks and raced away as soon as he was sure they’d go off. He sped through Fontana with the booming sounds of the fireworks at his back, when he looked out at the sky he could see flashes of color.

Like Daryl said would happen the racket drew in walkers from everywhere, not just the downtown area. Daryl had to swerve to avoid them. A few peeled from the herd and started after the truck, but most were too distracted by the fireworks.

When he got to the meeting place him and Merle decided on his brother was already there, sitting astride a sleek black Triumph. Daryl pulled up next to him. “Nice ride,” he said.

“Boyd ain’t gonna need it no more,” Merle said, face closed off. He had a few black duffle bags on back of the bike, “Not the only thing he ain’t gonna need no more,” he continued. He got off the bike and started slinging the bags into the back of the truck. “Brought all their shit to the bank, for what? Let me tell you something brother, money ain’t gonna mean shit for a long time. Maybe never. Got something for just for you, by the way.” Merle rummaged in one of the bags and emerged with a crossbow much like the one Daryl had lost back at the house.

Daryl found himself smiling for the first time in days. It wasn’t much of a smile, there and gone in an instant, but it still happened and Merle saw it.

“Thanks,” Daryl said, as Merle passed the bow to him through the truck’s window.

“Think nothin’ of it, little brother,” he said, then ruffled Daryl’s hair. Daryl pulled back in irritation, glaring at Merle. “Aww, don’t look at me that way! Ash was right, you do look different with those long’n lovely locks of yours.”

“Fuck you, Merle,” Daryl muttered without much venom, “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

******

They drove until it was fully dark, Daryl behind the wheel of the truck while Merle rode on the bike beside him. Every time Daryl caught his brother’s eye Merle grinned and let out a whoop. _He missed riding,_ Daryl thought, _cooped up for so long._ His brother had been the one to teach Daryl how to ride.

When it was too dark for them to risk travel they pulled off the rode and made camp. Merle took first watch while Daryl stretched out in the bed of the truck, staring up at the stars until he drifted off.

That night Daryl dreamed of Paradise Gardens.

His dream was very different than the reality. The reality was that on a bright Saturday morning in late October Paul woke him up and said, “Wake up, Daryl. We’re going on an adventure.”

Daryl grumbled and buried himself under the covers. “Too early for that shit,” he muttered.

“It’s eight thirty,” Paul replied, “time to get up.”

“Fuck that.”

“I can blow you to sweeten the deal.”

Daryl thought about that for a few minutes. Was it worth it, getting out of bed early on his day off and going on “an adventure”? He was mentally dithering when Paul tugged at the covers. Daryl let him pull them down then all the way off. Cool air hit his skin, making him shiver.

“I have a place I want to go look for today,” Paul said, as he shifted his position and settled between Daryl’s legs.

“Uh huh,” Daryl said.

Paul hooked his fingers beneath the waistband of Daryl’s briefs and tugged them off his hips, “Yep,” he said, bending down and kissing Daryl’s chest, “I’ve got a route planned out for us.” In between each word he placed kisses down Daryl’s abdomen to his hips.

“Ok,” Daryl said, voice strangled. Paul looked up and gave him a completely wicked smile before taking him into his mouth. Daryl collapsed back against the pillows, eyes fluttering shut.

They’d only been living together for two months by that morning; Daryl was still surprised at just how _right_ the whole thing felt. A year prior and Daryl wouldn’t have even allowed himself to _dream_ about having a life like this. Not just the sex, although that was pretty fucking awesome, but everything. Daryl had a _house,_ one that was in his name and that he had picked out. Paul had helped, of course, but he insisted that since it was Daryl’s money he had the final say.

Daryl had also gotten an actual _job_ , working for the university’s automotive center. He’d never had a steady job before in his life, instead just drifted around making money from odd jobs and one-off repairs. He wasn’t a fan of the forty hour work week but the work itself wasn’t too bad, neither was the pay, and he got actual _benefits._ Benefits like sick and vacation time, and the fact that he would still be _paid_ if he wasn’t at work was difficult to wrap his brain around.

Getting an actual job meant having actual money, another thing he couldn’t quite wrap his brain around. He owned the house outright, so there was no mortgage or rent to pay. Split between the two of them their bills didn’t amount to much so far, after Daryl got his first paycheck he and Paul opened a _saving account_ , one with both their names on it. It hadn’t seen a lot of use yet, after buying the house and two bikes the insurance money was gone for the most part.

What had eaten up the last of the insurance money and his first few paychecks was _stuff._ It wasn’t until they got their meagre possessions in one place that they realized how much _stuff_ they needed. Paul had bought his books and his writing desk, Daryl had brought his hunting supplies and his mama’s kitchen table and chairs. All the other furniture Daryl left at his Daddy’s old place, figuring Merle would want it when he eventually got out. Paul left his former frat house couch in a dumpster where it belonged along with his old bed that would creak loudly at the slightest movement. They had no bed, no washer or dryer, no seating for their living room.

Because they were, in Paul’s words, “Classy fucks” they went to Target for most of the stuff they needed to set up house. Kitchenware, a new king-sized bed that was all kinds of fun to fuck on, lamps, bathroom shit, and everything else. The last thing they bought was a set of sconces at Paul’s insistence.

“What the hell _for?”_ Daryl asked.

“Because a person is an adult who has his shit together if there are some sconces on the wall,” Paul replied.

Daryl was skeptical but he helped Paul hang them up anyway. When they were done Daryl took a look at the wall and had to admit Paul might have a point. The walls were a little bare otherwise, but now they had _sconces_ and this was the home of two people who had their shit together and weren’t completely terrified about the chance they were taking.

After Paul finished off a rather spectacular blowjob, Daryl pulled him up against his chest, sliding his hand between them so he could grab Paul’s dick. It didn’t take long to get him off, he was primed and ready to go. They lazed in bed for a bit after that, but Paul poked his ribs and said, “C’mon. Adventure time.”

“Where we going?”

“Summerville, it’s up north by the Alabama border.”

“Jesus, what is that? Four hours?”

“Two and a half,” Paul said, “Or three if we take the scenic route that avoids the interstate.”

“You’re talking about riding the bikes, right?” Daryl said.

“Yep,” Paul answered.

“Let’s take the scenic route.”

Daryl started teaching him to ride around the same time they started sleeping together. Paul had fallen in love with it to the surprise of them both, he had been understandably hesitant at first due to the circumstances of their first meeting. But he’d taken to it like a natural, and they’d gone on several longer rides together. None that were six hours long altogether with good chunks of it on the interstate, though. The last time they rode on the interstate Daryl was pretty sure a few years had been shaved off the end of his life. Paul was a good rider, but he was inexperienced, and watching him dart around on an eight lane highway had been fucking _terrifying._ Going via backroads was ok, though. More than ok.

After a shower and a quick breakfast they suited up and started out for Summerville. Despite his inexperience Paul rode in lead position on their way to Summerville, as he was the one who had planned the route. Paul was damn near uncanny when it came to maps and directions. Daryl followed, studying his boyfriend’s back. He’d ridden with other people before of course — Merle, Merle’s gang. But he’d never enjoyed it the way he enjoyed riding with Paul. The sun was at their backs during the first part of the ride, casting their shadows ahead together. The leaves had finished changing colors and the landscape was a riot of fiery oranges and reds. The route Paul took them on arced over the north part of the state, far up as Lake Lanier, before cutting west.

Towns were few and far between, just hills and wilderness. An hour from Summerville they pulled over for lunch at a roadside cafe called Louise’s Eats. It was a small, crowded joint in a building that looked like it had started its life out in the fifties or sixties as a gas station. They ordered their food at the counter and took it outside where there were a dozen or so weathered picnic tables.

“There’s silverware,” Paul said meditatively, studying his tray. He’d ordered fried chicken with okra and cornbread on the side, it came out on a paper plate and their drinks came in styrofoam cups. “No plates or glasses, but plastic silverware is too tacky? Daryl, explain redneck to me.”

Daryl snorted, “Don’t matter what it’s served on. You don’t eat the plate. Silverware don’t break if you drop it and some of this shit is too much for plastic.”

“Ah,” Paul said, tearing of a piece of his chicken and tucking it into his mouth, “This is delicious, even if I can feel my arteries hardening with every bite.”

Daryl snorted again; Paul didn’t have an ounce of fat on him. He was all lean muscle with the occasional bone jutting out. “I think you’ll survive. What’s in Summerville?” He hadn’t bothered to ask that morning, assuming it was one of Paul’s roadside curiosities.

Daryl wasn’t wrong. “Paradise Gardens,” Paul said. “It’s an art installation. There was this preacher, Howard Finster. In his sixties an angel appeared to him and told him to do a certain number of paintings, so that’s what he did,” he licked the grease off his fingers, “Paradise Gardens is where he used to live and where a lot of his work is, paintings and sculptures and stuff.”

“How’d you hear about this guy?” Daryl asked.

“He did some album artwork for REM and the Talking Heads.”

“You and your nerd rock.”

“I have excellent taste in music,” Paul said loftily, “I know there’s no incoherent screaming or whatever—“

“Least _my_ stuff won’t make you fall asleep.”

“At least _my_ stuff won’t leave you deaf by the time you’re forty.”

“Rather be deaf than listen to some of that shit,” Daryl answered. Paul gave him the finger, even though they were both grinning. In truth Daryl didn’t mind Paul’s music nearly as much as he made out, especially since Paul had a tendency to sing along. Daryl supposed he’d eventually find it annoying but after only a few months living together full time he still loved it.

The spent the rest of their lunch playfully arguing back and forth over the other’s taste in music, film, sports, and any other bullshit. It was nice, to sit there laughing and cutting into each other. Nice, even though Daryl couldn’t help himself from looking around nervously every now and then. He needed reassurance that none of the people around them suspected they were boyfriends instead of just good buddies. The dining crowd looked like the sorts of people he’d run into back home in Sedalia, the kind whose favorite game was “smear the queer”.

Daryl realized during one of these glances that Paul definitely knew what he was doing. Daryl felt guilt tug at his heart and he dropped his eyes.

“Hey,” Paul said, voice low, “it’s ok to be nervous. I’d be nervous in a place like this without you to help me blend in.”

“You don’t blend in,” Daryl scoffed, cheeks a little pink. Maybe he was just partial, but he felt like Paul would have stood out anywhere he went. There were times Daryl just had to sit and marvel at a fact a guy that good-looking was _his._

“Well great, now I’m paranoid,” Paul said lightly, “But seriously, don’t feel bad about being uneasy out amongst the straights.”

“I ain’t ashamed of you,” Daryl muttered stubbornly. He wasn’t; he could never be.

“I know,” Paul said, something in his voice made Daryl’s heart ache. “Likewise. Sometimes you just need to pick your battles, is all.”

That mollified Daryl a bit, so he shrugged and said, “Yeah, I guess so. You ready to head out?”

The final bit of road to Summerville wound up through John’s Mountain. It wasn’t as bad as the interstate but watching Paul on the curvy mountain roads still made Daryl nervous as all hell. Thankfully it didn’t last for too long, they made their way to flatter country, winding through downtown Summerville and moving towards the outskirts of town. The streets grew narrower and houses grew shabbier, until Daryl saw peeking through the trees an incongruously tall structure, four stories high or more. They turned the corner and he saw a house covered in paintings of various people, figures bright and childlike. In front was a small gravel parking lot where a sign read “ _The Howard Finster Folk Art Society Welcomes You to Paradise!”_

Daryl didn’t know quite what to make of Paradise Gardens. Weird, is what it was. It was several acres' worth of jumbled structures and kudzu-covered sculpture. There was a shed made from coke bottles, a tree house paneled in mirrors. The structure that had caught Daryl’s eye from the street was some kind of chapel. It looked a bit like a layered wedding cake; circular rooms piled one on top of the other.

Some of the sculptures looked like the preacher had just plastered piles of junk together, when Daryl stopped to examine a few he saw things like a plastic baby’s arm, a flattened spoon, a toy gun, a large hunk of glass. Paul had his little digital camera out was taking pictures. Daryl studied the sculptures, taking in the hunks of random shit allglued together. When he looked up he saw Paul had wandered off. Daryl looked up toward the chapel, wondering if that’s were Paul had headed. Daryl walked slowly in that direction, taking in the rest of the place. He came across a sign that read, “I TOOK THE PIECES YOU THREW AWAY AND PUT THEM TOGATHER BY NIGHT AND DAY. WASHED BY RAIN DRIED BY SUN A MILLION PIECES ALL IN ONE.” He passed a windowless garage, when he peaked inside he saw an old Ford covered in paintings rusting away. There was something written over the back window, faded and peeling, he could barely read it. “THE LIVING AND DEAD COME TOGETHER.”

He came to the treehouse, saw it was paneled in mirrors both outside and inside. He glanced up, there was movement inside and he realized that was where Paul had gotten himself to. Daryl climbed up the ladder and got a look inside and saw that it was paneled in mirrors as well. Paul was staring meditatively at the floor, he looked up with a smile when he saw Daryl enter.

“Hey,” he said, smile quirking at his lips. “Enjoying yourself?”

Daryl shrugged, “It’s weird, but I kinda like it. Interestin’ guy.”

“Yeah,” Paul said, lowering his eyes back to the floor of the treehouse. Daryl followed his gaze and saw unlike the neat panelling of the rest of the interior the floor was shattered hunks of mirrors laid out in a mosaic. His cracked and distorted reflection stared back at him.

He walked over to Paul, stood side by side with him and studied the reflection of them together, hundreds of them reflecting hundreds of others. Paul raised his little digital camera and snapped a quick picture before Daryl realized he’d done it. “Don’t take my picture,” Daryl muttered.

“I didn’t, I took _our_ picture,” Paul replied smugly, looking down at the little view screen of his camera and reviewing his photos. Daryl looked over his shoulder and got a glimpse of _another_ picture of Daryl himself, at the table at Louise's Eats.

“You little motherfucker,” Daryl grumbled.

Paul was unrepentant, “Fuck off, you look handsome and I’m keeping it.”

Daryl made to grab the camera but Paul sidestepped him deftly then got on his tiptoes to plant a quick kiss at the corner of Daryl’s mouth. That startled him into submission, he looked around nervously out of habit.

“No one’s here, Daryl,” Paul said softly, a little smile on his face, “Just you and me.”

He was right, they were alone in Paradise Gardens. There was no one to see him bend down and kiss Paul back, just row after row of their reflections.

Years later lying in the bed of a beat up old truck as the world burned around him Daryl dreamed he was back in Paradise Gardens. Only it was different in his dream. When he looked at the sculptures of glued together junk he saw instead of chunks of glass there were eyes that followed him. In the dream a feeling of dread pressed down on him. Like in the reality Paul was gone, wandered off somewhere, and Daryl started hurrying through the gardens, heart racing. There was the sign, words written in block capitals, _I TOOK THE PIECES YOU THREW AWAY…_ only Daryl saw there was something else written beneath it. In that logic of dreams Daryl knew that if he read what was written there it would tell him something he did _not_ want to know. He whirled away, calling out Paul’s name. In his dream the grounds were even bigger, a labyrinth consisting of hundreds of acres instead of three or four.

The paintings on every surface were leering slyly at him, their eyes shrewd and mocking. None of the cheerful innocence he remembered, one looked like Ash the sad sack of shit they'd left at the bar, Daryl’s knife was protruding from its forehead.

Daryl grew frantic. “ _Paul!”_ he screamed out, “ _Where the fuck are you?”_

His voice echoed back to him, and he started running, still calling Paul’s name. As he ran he was overcome with the certainty that he was being followed, they were behind him, god—

“Wake up, baby brother, wake fuck up right now!” There was a crack of flesh meeting flesh, and Daryl’s head jerked back.

The nightmare version of Paradise Gardens faded and he came back to himself. He blinked and saw Merle staring down at him, jaw clenched tight. Daryl’s cheek stung, he realized he’d been slapped.

“Fuck you hittin’ me for, bro?” Daryl muttered in a sleep-thick voice.

“You were hollerin’ in your sleep, dummy. Gonna bring a crowd of the abominations down on us. Shee-it.”

Daryl rubbed his hand over his face, unsurprised to find it wet. “What was I saying?”

Merle didn’t answer at first. “Couldn’t make it out,” he eventually said.

“Bad dreams, is all,” Daryl muttered.

“You want somethin’ for that? Got some reefer, some percocet…” Merle gestured to the duffle bags in back of the truck, “Found Boyd’s stash, makes mine look like a rinky dink little kid’s set. Even got some of that Blue Sky, but I reckon meth’s not what you need right now—“

Daryl shook his head. He and Paul would split a joint every now and then, and on one memorable camping trip ate some ‘shrooms together, but at that moment Daryl didn’t feel like getting fucked up. At that moment he felt like if he got fucked up the memory of that dream would be enhanced rather than obliterated.

“Nah, man,” Daryl said, “I’ll take watch, get yourself some sleep.”

Merle studied him wordlessly for several long moments, making Daryl drop his eyes.

“Ok,” Merle said, “But if you get tired just wake me up, hear? Don’t need you fallin’ asleep right when the abominations come creeping in.”

******

The next night Daryl did decide to help himself to some of Merle’s stash. It was in this state that he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the truck’s rearview mirror. His hair was longish, his bangs hanging in his face and the back touching the collar of his shirt. _Those long and lovely locks o’ yours,_ Daryl thought, remembering Merle’s words. Paul had liked Daryl’s hair long, liked having something to grab onto.

After a few minutes’ thought Daryl took his buck knife out and started sawing off hanks of hair, cutting close to his scalp. When he was done it looked uneven and chewed through but it was short, and that was all that mattered.

Before he put the knife away his gaze fell on the tattoo on his ring finger. The crude winged skull that was supposed to remind him that he was going to die. The ink was starting to fade on the inside of his finger. Daryl remembered the lecture the tattoo artist gave them when they first met with her for a consultation. _Finger tattoos look cool, but you have to keep getting them touched up. Maybe as often as once a year_ _, so they’re an investment in money_ _._ Looking at the faded lines on his finger Daryl realized that one day it would nothing but a smeared black mark.

He lifted the buck knife up and held it over his finger, pondering. He could just peel the skin off like a grape. It would hurt and bleed and leave an ugly scar but he had plenty of those already, one more wouldn’t make a difference. And he wouldn’t have to just watch it vanish. Wouldn’t have to look down and remember the conversation they’d had in bed after they’d decided on matching tattoos then tried to figure out a design.

“What should we get?” Paul asked, a smile tugging on his lips. “Hearts with each other’s names?”

“I may’ve just had your dick in my mouth but I still ain’t that gay,” Daryl scoffed.

Paul rolled his eyes, “Heaven forbid. Maybe a flaming skull with ‘I like fucking guys but none of that gay shit’.”

“Only like fucking one guy,” Daryl said pointedly, “That’s why we’re getting these things.”

“Actually a skull isn’t a bad idea,” Paul said. His voice had gone somber and meditative. “Y’know. The whole ’till death do us part’ thing.”

In the end they decided on the winged skull on each of their ring fingers, a placeholder for a wedding band. The design, Paul told him, came from Victorian gravestone symbolism. _Memento Mori._ Remember that you are going to die. His boyfriend was a morbid motherfucker at times. Daryl refrained from pointing out that Paul didn’t need a reminder that they were going to die. Much as he tried to hide it, the fact was rarely far from his mind. Paul understandably had some issues and fears when it came to the idea of loved ones’ deaths. He would go through periodic fits of worry about Daryl’s health and sneak more vegetables into their meals, nag Daryl about his smoking, and force Daryl to check to see if his motorcycle was in good working order. Daryl found it both exasperating and endearing. 

“Ain’t dying on you. Promise,” Daryl told him once during one of those fits, “Even if something happens then when I get to hell I’m’a twist Satan’s nut sack until he lets me come back for you.”

It had never even occurred to Daryl that Paul would be the one to die first. Paul was younger and healthier and just more _vital_ in a way Daryl couldn’t explain. It was still unthinkable to imagine he could be dead. That what was left of him was scattered all over an Indiana cornfield, nothing but charred bone and ash. Daryl hadn’t even been able to grab any pictures of him before Merle dragged him out of Athens; all that was left were his memories and the tattoo on his finger.

In the end he couldn’t bring himself to destroy it.

The next morning Merle did a double take when he saw Daryl’s hair, but didn’t say anything about it one way or another.


	8. Paul: Part IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah so I'm sorry this took so long and there's not much to show for it, writing this chapter was like pulling teeth. At this point I'm done messing with it.

The day after Paul’s confrontation with Austin was when all hell broke loose. It started out with the morning inspection, everyone lining up to get checked for fevers or any other symptoms. Roland, his remaining cellmate, shuffled over to one corner of their cage while Paul stood at the other so he could talk to Carmen and Justine. Despite their close quarters for the past few weeks the old man had barely spoken to him, eyes always far away and horrified, as if he were seeing something else.

Carmen was bouncing Mateo and trying to soothe him. He was still fussy, the turtle had been a minor miracle but there was only so much it could do. Paul shot a quick glance their way, his reassuring smile fading when he got a good look at her face. “What?” he asked.

“He feels warm,” she said, voice tight with panic. Justine was on her other side, she laid a hand against Mateo’s cheek and paled.

Paul stared at the little boy, his light brown cheeks had flushed and his face was shiny, “Is he…do you think…”

“It’s just a fever,” Carmen said, “babies get sick. Everyone gets _sick,_ doesn’t mean…” her voice trailed off. She was shaking, her wide eyes glued at the guards working their way closer.

They happened to be the three guards that Paul liked the least; and as they moved through the patients he came to a realization. “Something’s happened,” he said urgently to the two women. The guards had been radiating tension for awhile, the feeling of doom amplified by the caged patients. Paul had no idea how long it had been; time didn’t really have meaning anymore, just numbing hours of boredom that could turn to terror without warning. Like now. Something had happened, something _big,_ the guards weren’t just scared, they were terrified. Their bloodshot eyes peered out from ashen faces, staring at the quarantined patients like they were wild animals. “We need to get out of here.”

Justine met his eyes and looked frightened for a brief moment before her face hardened. She’d been a principal at a high school in Nashville, and Paul thought any student sent to her office probably pissed themselves within the first minute. “Can we? This place is _huge,_ it’s not just getting out of these cages, or hell even out of this room,” she replied, “It’s the entire base.”

“I know,” Paul said, dismayed. Before he could say anything else the guards were at their cages. They examined Justine, then Carmen with a high tech thermometer that didn’t even need to touch their skin, just pointed it at them like it was a gun. When they got to Mateo they exchanged looks.

“Ma’am,” one of the guards, a guy called Parker who was probably the biggest asshole they had to deal with, “Step away from the fence, please.”

Carmen’s face turned the color of ash, “Why?”

“The kid’s just got a bug,” Paul said, “Because we’ve been cooped up.”

“Evans,” Parker said to the second guard, “shoot that guy if he says anything else. That’s an order Ma’am, get _back.”_

The third guard, Donaldson, looked like he wanted to protest but simply stood back, hand on his sidearm and watching them all warily.

Carmen backed up slowly, eyes wide and round, clutching her son to her chest protectively. Parker opened the gate to her cage and she flung herself to the far side, curling herself around Mateo, who had started crying.

“Ma’am, he has to come with us now.”

There was an explosion of protest from Carmen, Justine, and Paul. Even the people in the cell on Carmen’s other side got in on the action, one of them shouting for the guards to have some decency. They were told to shut the fuck up.

Carmen didn’t let Mateo go easily, Parker had to hold her while Evans ripped Mateo out of her arms. She raged like a wild thing, screaming curses in both English and Spanish. Parker drove his fist into her stomach and she went down, gasping. That didn’t stop her, she lunged forward, grabbing his leg and biting like animal, or one of the dead.

For one horrifying moment Paul thought that Parker would go for his sidearm and shoot her. Instead he pulled out something that looked like a baton and Paul realized was a stun gun a second before he jammed it against Carmen’s side. She thrashed against the floor, teeth clenched in agony.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Paul shouted, “How does this make any sense?”

“You best shut the fuck up,” Parker growled, “Evans! Get that kid out of here.” In the cage next to them Carmen cried out.

Evans’ face was colorless, and he looked unsure and afraid. “Do it!” Parker snapped. Donaldson scurried off.

Parker moved from the sobbing woman to Paul and Roland’s cage. He waved his thermometer over Paul’s face, grunted, and moved on to Roland. When Paul looked over he saw that for the first time since he got there the old man’s eyes were focused and aware, seeing what was in front of him.

“You piece of shit,” he said, “This isn’t right!”

“Old man, get back!” Parker said.

“ _You can’t kill us all!”_ Roland shouted. He grabbed the chainlink fencing that made up their cage and started rattling, “ _You can’t kill us all! You can’t—“_

Paul saw that Parker still had the stun gun in one hand. He shouted out a warning too late. Parker thrust the stun gun through the links of the fence and jammed it into the old man’s side. He fell back, convulsing. Paul rushed to his side.

“Listen to me,” Parker shouted at the frightened and huddled patients, “no more of this shit! This is a national _emergency._ Anybody says _boo_ to us next is going to get even worse!”

The entire ward was silent, other prisoners staring at the guards in fear. Paul could hear Carmen sobbing in the cell next to him, could hear Justine trying to console her. Parker gave the room a final glare, and jerked his head at Donaldson. They moved on to the next cage, Parker holding the stun baton loosely in one hand. 

Paul looked down at Roland, the old man had stopped convulsing, his eyes were shut and he was breathing rapidly. Paul shifted him so that he was comfortable, trying to remember the first aid courses the university made all its employees take. The only thing that came to him was to make sure the injured person had a clear airway and to move them as little as possible. He watched the old man’s chest rise and fall for a few beats, then went to the corner of his cell to check on Carmen.

She was curled up on the floor in a fetal position sobbing. Justine was kneeling beside her and petting her hair, telling her it was going to be ok. She didn’t sound particularly convincing, and her eyes were wet when she looked up at Paul.

“This is _fucked_ ,” she said in a voice that shook with anger.

“They’re not going to let any of us leave,” Paul said, keeping his voice low. He’d known that fact almost since the beginning, but he never truly felt it all the way down in his bones the way he did at that moment. You don’t rip a sick infant out of his weeping mother’s arms if you were worried about leaving witnesses.

“No, they aren’t,” Justine said, “How do we get out of here?”

“I don’t know,” he said, “getting out of these cells is the first step.” He thought that was easy part, they were only twelve feet high or thereabouts, topped with coils of barbed wire. The climb wouldn’t have been a challenge even if he _hadn’t_ spent every other lunch break for the past four and half years at the campus gym’s climbing wall. Even the barbed wire wouldn’t have been an issue, he could just toss his sleeping bag over it in addition to wrapping up his hands. The real impossibility was doing it without the guards seeing, especially as keyed up as they were and quick to resort to violence. Maybe he could distract them, get them to come into his cell, swipe something out of their pockets.

Paul craned his head back, monitoring the progress of the two guards. They were almost done with the last row of cells. He glanced down at where Roland was stretched out unconscious on the floor, skin ashy and completely motionless.

That was when Paul realized Roland was dead. “Fuck,” Paul whispered. He glanced over to the guards, who were still inspecting quarantined patients.

“Paul,” Justine whispered, “Is he dead?”

“Yeah,” he replied, voice shaking, “Those pieces of shit—“

A gasp came out of Roland’s mouth, making Paul jump. He took a half step forward automatically before he realized. Roland’s eyes opened, and they were white and unseeing.

Cold fear washed over Paul. In spite of his panic his mind made the connection, _They’ve been inspecting us for weeks, are we all infected? Does it just happen when we die? Is it all of us? Does quarantine even mean anything—_

Roland—or the the thing that had once been him— was trying to push itself up off the floor. Its head swiveled around to Paul’s direction, mouth opening and closing.

“Fuck,” Paul said. He was trapped in a cage with it. He shouted at the guards who were a few rows down, inspecting another cage.

“Shut up!” Parker called his way.

“ _You dumb motherfucker he’s infected!”_ Paul shouted back. Roland’s body was starting to rise. Paul looked around him frantically and grabbed his sleeping bag up from the floor. Just as the corpse got to its feet Paul pounced on it, wrapping the sleeping bag around it so its head was covered and its arms were trapped. He could dimly hear Justine screaming for the guards but he couldn’t do it himself, all his strength went into holding on to the writhing corpse. His mind flashed back to the plane right after the crash, Carmen’s mother trying to eat Mateo, how it had taken everything Paul had to hold her back.

The corpse thrashed, and Paul could hear the sound of the sleeping bag ripping. He tightened his grip, he was vaguely aware that the guards were at his cell, they were opening the cage door, they were racing toward them.

Paul had a moment of perfect clarity, when the way out presented itself. There was no time to think it over. Paul could hear his heart roaring in his ears, the bitter taste of adrenaline was in his mouth. He was aware of feeling of coldness radiating from his center, a coldness he recognized. He’d fought for his life before, back when he was a scared runaway trying to survive on the streets, and that cold feeling had always come right before. Things happened very quickly after that, but time seemed slowed and hyperreal.

In one beat of Paul’s heart the door to the cell was opening. Donaldson was racing in, his sidearm out, raising it at the thrashing figure in the sleeping bag. The next beat and Paul was whipping the sleeping bag off Roland’s corpse and diving to the floor. Donaldson was able to get off one shot, it hit Roland in the shoulder and there was a spray of blood. Then Roland was springing on him, and the guard started screaming. Parker was just inside the cell door, gun raised in one hand and still holding the stun baton in the other. He screamed out for Donaldson to move so he could get a shot. He either didn’t notice Paul eeling across the floor toward him or did register him as a threat.

Then time snapped back to normal, making everything a confused blur. Paul hadn’t been in a real fight in for almost a decade, and even at his best had never been up against a trained soldier. Parker outweighed him by at least twenty pounds and hadn’t spent two weeks confined to a cramped cell. All Paul had was speed and determination, and he had no idea either would be enough. He sprung to his feet and grabbed Parker by the wrist of the hand holding the stun gun. In the same movement he was jumping up, twisting his body so he could wrap his legs around the other man’s shoulders and jerking him forward. He’d only done this move in the gym but it worked perfectly. Parker went down face first, head bouncing against the ground. His gun went flying in one direction and his grip on the stun baton loosened enough that Paul could grab it.

Before the guard could recover Paul hit him with the stun baton, leaving him a twitching mess on the floor. Donaldson was still struggling with Roland’s corpse, it had knocked him to the ground and was on top of him, jaws snapping. Paul reversed his grip on the stun baton so he could use it as club and smashed the corpse in the temple again and again. The soldier was able to flip it off him, and Paul brought the baton down for one final blow. The corpse went still.

There was a moment where Paul simply stood gasping for breath. The entire fight had lasted less than a minute. Justine was staring at him wide-eyed from the next cell, and even Carmen had been momentarily shocked out of her grief-stricken stupor.

Then Donaldson was scrambling for his gun and Paul lashing out at him with the stun baton. He jerked in pain, all muscles going rigid. When he stilled Paul dove for the guard’s supplies. He grabbed the keys, an ID card, and the guard’s radio. On his way out of the cell he grabbed both guards’ guns off the floor.

“Holy _fuck,”_ Justine said as Paul unlocked their cell door. Carmen was getting shakily to her feet, her anguished expression slowly turning into something a lot fiercer. Paul handed her the stun baton after he opened the door.

“We’ve got to get Mateo,” Paul told Justine. He held out the keys, “Can you let everyone else out?”

“Yeah, I can do that,” she said. After she took the keys Paul hesitated then handed her one of the guards’ pistols.

“Just in case,” he said, then to Carmen, “Let’s go.”

“Paul, this is nuts—“ Justine said, face pale.

“Don’t you get it? All that commotion, no one has come running. I told you, something’s happened.” She hesitated only a second more before going to unlock the cage next to her.

“Hurry back,” she said, face white to the lips. Paul nodded, and he and Carmen raced after where Donaldson had taken Mateo.

*******

Outside of the ward the hospital was a labyrinth. Carmen ran beside him, breathing ragged and panicked. They reached an elevator, and Paul swiped Donaldson’s ID card in the lock. The door slid open and they jumped inside.

“What floor?” Carmen whispered.

Paul stared at the buttons, fighting panic. The gun felt heavy in his hand. He remembered what Justine said, about it not being just the cages or even the room that they needed to get out of, it was the entire damn base. He had no idea how big the building they were in was, he had spent only a few conscious hours in a ward above them before being brought down into quarantine.

 _They’re not planning on letting us leave,_ Paul thought to himself. He pushed the button labelled “B”. The elevator doors slid shut and they started down. Carmen gave him a questioning look and he explained, “Whatever they’re doing to the people they take…they’re going to do it somewhere secret.”

There was a ding, and the doors slid open. Paul stared down the dim hallway where they were somehow supposed to find a baby then escape. At his hip the radio he’d swiped from the guard burst to life, making both of them jump. “ _All units, Operation Cobalt is a go. I repeat, Operation Cobalt—“_ Paul fumbled with the switch and was able to turn it off. “Cobalt,” he repeated, “What do you think that means?” Whatever it was it made Paul’s blood run cold.

“We’ll worry about that after we find my son.”

As if in answer to that the distant, echoey sound of a baby crying came to them. Carmen let out a strangled noise and raced down the hallway, ignoring him telling her to wait. There was a row of doors, Carmen pressed her ear against each one for a brief instant before moving on. At the third door she gasped out, “This one! Paul!” He swiped the ID in the lock, there was a beep and a little green light. Paul pushed it open.

The room was dimly lit and smelled like death. There was a row of beds, each one had someone strapped down on it. They looked awful, pale and sweaty and many raving at nothing. There was a single figure clad in white moving among them, a nurse. In her arms was Mateo, crying weakly. Carmen let out a noise that sounded more like a wild animal’s than anything else. The nurse jerked her head up, and her eyes went wide and dark when she saw them standing there. Paul raised the gun and said, “Don’t move,” at the same time Carmen spat, “Give me my baby you fucking _bitch.”_

The nurse stood there frozen at the contradicting orders. Carmen lunged forward with murder on her face and the stun gun raised. The nurse didn’t protest when she took Mateo from her, just stepped back with her hands raised. Carmen clutched her son tight with one arm and the stun baton in her free hand.

“How do we get out of here?” Paul asked the nurse.

“You don’t want to get out of here,” the nurse said, her voice trembling, “You’re from the quarantine, right? You’ll never make it out of here. I know it’s rough but trust me you’re better off—“

“We’ll take our chances,” Paul cut her off, “Tell us how to get out of here. Right now.”

******

They tied the nurse to one of the beds using the restraints so she wouldn’t call for help. Paul left them loose enough so she could get free if she struggled hard enough. Hopefully the three of them would be long gone by the time she did.

They hurried back down the hallway toward the elevator. Mateo was whimpering a little against Carmen’s shoulder but thankfully wasn’t making any noise louder than that.

As they approached the elevator the doors slid open. Paul grabbed Carmen by the arm just as a guard stepped out. He saw the two of them and his eyes widened, hand going to his sidearm.

Paul jerked the pistol up and barked out, “Don’t move!”

The soldier froze. Paul recognized him, it wasn’t one of the guards that had been on duty this shift, it was Findley, their evening guard that Paul thought might have a conscience. Regardless, Paul was fully prepared to blow his head off if he so much as twitched.

Findley’s eyes skittered from Paul to Carmen. He raised a hand up placating hand and said, “Whoah, now. Easy, easy. I’m not going to hurt either of you, I came—“

“Don’t fucking patronize me,” Paul spat back, “Put your gun on the floor and slide it over.”

“Do you even know how to use that gun?” Findley asked, not moving.

"Do you want to find out?"

“See, most people, all they know about guns is what they see in movies—“

“Do most people have a paranoid redneck boyfriend whose lowlife brother is in prison and has several associates still at large? _I know how to use a fucking gun._ ” Paul wasn’t bluffing, he didn’t _like_ guns and thought Daryl’s hunting rifles and the “Warning: Pit Bull” sign on the gate was the only security they needed. Daryl disagreed, vehemently, and wasn’t impressed by Paul’s “damn ninja bullshit” either, so he kept a pistol in the nightstand and made damn sure Paul knew how to use it.

Findley’s posture changed subtly, and he said, “Yeah, ok. I believe you. Look man, like I was trying to say, I’m here to help, I came to get you two and the little man, is he ok? We’re getting everyone out of here.” His gaze flicked to Carmen, “We’re not going to hurt you.”

“I think you’re full of shit,” Carmen replied, stepping closer to Paul.

“I talked to Justine before I came down here,” Findley said, “She’s the one who told me where you were. I swear to you both, we’re getting out of here.”

A flicker of hesitation crossed Paul’s mind. He wanted so desperately to believe the man in front of him, that this nightmare was going to end. But he couldn’t. “What’s cobalt mean?” Paul asked, and Findley flinched. “Yeah, I thought it was something big.”

Findley stared at him, and something changed on his face. In a flat voice he recited, “Operation Cobalt is the final protocol for the worst case scenario, the infected overrunning our cities. All military personnel are to evacuate, and retreat to strategic installations around the country. Civilians left behind are to be humanely terminated, and the infected destroyed by any means necessary.” His face twisted and there was a glint of tears in his eyes, “Operation Cobalt is why we’re getting the fuck out of here.”

Carmen let out a strangled noise beside him. The barrel of the gun in Paul’s hand was trembling a little. He felt like his blood had been replaced with ice water. He had no trouble believing what Findley was saying, no trouble at all believing the government would order this. Not after his weeks in quarantine, not after seeing callously take Mateo then use their stun guns on Carmen. “You’re not giving me a lot of reasons not to shoot,” Paul said, a slight tremor in his voice, “am I supposed to believe you’re going to help us out of the goodness of your heart?”

“We’re not monsters,” Findley said, “Not all of us. If there’s ever a time to disobey an order it’s now. Stabler and me, we’ve been talking about it for awhile, trying to figure out the right time. Then tonight the order for Cobalt came…” The soldier swallowed, “I guess now is the right time.” Paul stared into the other man’s eyes, trying to find some hint of a lie and failing. Findley saw his hesitation and whispered, “My niece is the same age as the little man. If you believe anything, believe I’d never sit back and watch them hurt him.”

Paul exchanged a quick glance with Carmen. She gave a slight nod, and Paul lowered the gun. Findley let out a long breath, “Ok. Good. Let’s go.”

******

Part of Paul still believed it was a trick right up until they were pulling away from the base. There were maybe a dozen soldiers who were defecting, they loaded up the quarantine survivors in Humvees and took off. They weren’t stopped, whether because everyone else had evacuated or because they were occupied with something more important. As the caravan drove down the highway Paul thought more and more it was the latter; everywhere he looked was devastation and destruction.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered.

“Yeah,” Findley said. He was driving the Humvee and Paul was riding shotgun.

“Is this…I mean, is this everywhere?”

“Yeah, man.”

******

They made a camp just outside of Bowling Green, parking the Humvees in a loose circle for protection. The survivors spread out in the center, the soldiers had brought blankets and tents with them. Paul was antsy, he felt too close to the base still. Findley reassured him that the people there would have enough problems to deal with and their group of fugitives would be very low on the list.

“If there’s anyone still left,” the soldier said, face grim. They’d eaten and were sitting in a loose knot by the dying campfire—Paul, Justine, Carmen, and Mateo. “How’s the little man doing?”

“He just needs to rest,” Carmen replied. “What happens now? To us?”

“We’re heading east, towards Washington.”

“Why Washington?” Paul asked skeptically.

“That’s where the last line of defense is gonna be. What’s left of the government.”

“Yeah, we’re not feeling all that warm towards our government at the moment,” Justine said with a scowl.

“I understand, but it’s the safest place right now. For everyone.” He looked pointedly at Mateo dozing in Carmen’s lap.

“I’m not going to DC,” Paul said, “I’m going back home, to Athens.”

Findley stared at him, eyes full of sorrow, “Listen, what I told you about Cobalt? By now it’s happened. Atlanta was burned to the ground.”

Paul shook his head stubbornly, “Athens is a good sixty miles outside of Atlanta.”

Findley pressed his lips together, “Still gonna have to get too close. You’ve seen what it’s like out here, I promise you it’s a thousand times worse near major cities.”

“I have to get back. My boyfriend is there…he…he doesn’t know I’m ok. When I first got there they said he was notified-“

“That’s a load of shit,” Findley said, confirming what Paul had already believed.

“I know it is,” Paul said impatiently, “He’d have tried to come get me by now if he knew.”

“Look, you can’t be thinking of going by yourself. It’s safer in a group, and besides we could really use your help. He’s probably not even—” he snapped his mouth closed, realizing his tactlessness a few seconds too late.

Paul’s chest tightened; Daryl being dead was not an idea he could seriously entertain, now or ever. “So what, I’m just supposed to give up on him? I mean, I know he’s just my _boyfriend_ and it’s not like a real relationship between some straights—“

“Man, don’t _even_ bring homophobia into this, that ain’t it, I’d say the same thing if you were going back for your wife,” Findley snapped, then looked guilty. In a softer voice he said, “I’m just saying. It’s a long shot, is all. You making it there in one piece, and him being there. I mean, even if he’s alive he’s not just going to be sitting around waiting.”

“Our house is where to start looking, and I know a few other places,” Paul explained, “He’s alive, you don’t know Daryl like I do. He’ll be the last man standing.” Paul was thinking of the story Daryl told him of the time he got lost in the woods when he was nine, no one even knew he was _missing._ Thinking of the first time Daryl took him out hunting, the way moving through the wilderness was second nature to him. Fuck, he could melt into the backwoods of Georgia and live off the land for ages. So long as he had his crossbow or even as little as a knife.

He felt Carmen’s warm hand against his shoulder, “Why don’t you sleep on it? Decide in the morning.”

“Yeah,” Findley said, “You won’t be able to go anywhere until the morning anyway.”

“I’ll wait until morning to leave, but my decision is made,” Paul said, “I’m going to try and get some sleep.”

That night stretched out on a sleeping bag under the open sky, Paul was filled with certainty about his choice. There was no way in hell he could go to DC without Daryl, and there was no way in hell that Daryl was dead. Paul’s mind drifted into the past.

 

************

“Doing anything for Christmas?” Daryl asked him casually one evening at the Georgia Bar. In the past few months it had become “their” bar; almost every Saturday after visiting Merle Daryl would go out for drinks with Paul. They’d sit across from each other and shoot the shit for a bit, then challenge each other to a game of darts or pool. Daryl almost always won the former while Paul’s game was the latter. Whichever one they played usually involved a lot of trash talk and laughter.

Not that night, however. Paul had a bit too many beers that night and game had been mostly silent. “I’m not much of a Christmas person,” Paul answered. He took a swig of beer, then bent over the pool table, “Three in the right corner pocket.” He lined up his shot and snapped his stick forward. The little white cue ball smacked into its intended target smartly but the three went spinning across the table, missing the corner pocket by a good margin. Fuck, tonight Daryl was going to win.

“What’d you do last year?” Daryl asked, studying the table before leaning down to take his shot, “Ten, side pocket.”

“Took a trip to Key West, where I got drunk and fucked so many guys I lost count,” Paul replied glumly. Daryl’s stick scraped against the table and missed the cue ball entirely. “Sorry, I know you don’t like hearing about stuff like that.” They’d come a long way from that ugly confrontation in the car months before but whenever Paul so much as _hinted_ at his sex life Daryl would get so obviously uncomfortable it was clear it still bothered him. “That shot didn’t count, take another.”

“S’fine,” Daryl said, not meeting Paul’s eyes, “I asked, didn’t I?”

“But I didn’t need to give you any gory details. I’m sorry, I’m just a miserable bastard during the holidays.”

Daryl still wouldn’t meet his eyes, “Partying in Key West was miserable?”

“Incredibly so,” Paul said. That week was a blur of booze, drugs, and sex. He was glad he couldn’t remember all of it, to be honest. When he got back to Chicago it was cold and gray and looking out at the bleak landscape he realized that it was like he’d never left, his interior state was just as cold and gray while he was soaking up sun on the beach or fucking a stranger in the men’s room of a gay club. “God, I’m sorry. You don’t need to hear all this. Let’s play. You get a redo on that shot.”

Daryl didn’t argue, and they said very little to each other during the rest of the game. To Paul’s surprise he won despite how off kilter he was feeling, Daryl just never seemed to recover after that one shot.

“Want to play another game?” Daryl asked, and Paul shook his head. Above the pool tables were strands of Christmas lights hung from the ceiling and behind the bar was a wreath festooned with red ribbons. There was a reason he was as out of sorts as he was that night.

They walked back to Paul’s apartment. It was a long way, but they usually did it because it gave Daryl a chance to sober up if he were planning on driving back to Sedalia plus the exercise was good for his leg. He didn’t need a cane or crutch anymore, and the week before Christmas he was scheduled to get the rest of the metal pins taken out of his leg.

They were halfway to his apartment when Paul blurted out, “I miss my mom.” Daryl gave him a confused look. “Why I’m not a Christmas person,” Paul explained.

“Oh,” Daryl said quietly. “I understand. First few Christmases after my mama died especially…they were tough.”

Curious, Paul asked, “What was a Dixon family Christmas like?”

“Cheap,” Daryl said, “My mama, she weren’t much of a cook, but she made a lot and we got to eat all we wanted. When she was still alive we went to Christmas Eve service at the church, got punch and a little bag of Christmas cookies. What about you?”

Paul wished he hadn’t asked, he could have just brushed it off. Just said Christmases were rough because he missed his mom and that was it. Fuck, he hadn’t needed to bring her up at all, and didn’t know why he had. Didn’t know why he kept talking, “My mom was the Christmas _Queen._ I remember when I was little, the day after Thanksgiving was Decoration Day.” Paul was quiet, thinking back to the old boxes shoved in the closet under the stairs. Even though he knew what they was in them it was almost as exciting as seeing his presents beneath the tree on the big day. “Mom lived in Germany for about five years when she was a kid. Army brat. She had boxes and boxes of all these decorations she and my grandparents got there, _no one_ I knew had decorations like that.” He was thinking in particular of the enormous Christmas Pyramid that had its place of honor in the foyer. It had been nearly as tall as he’d been at eleven, the last Christmas he saw it. He described it to Daryl, the three different tiers with their elaborately carved wooden scenes of a Christmas Market, a group of children ice skating, Santa and the reindeer on top. His mom let him light the candles in the evening, and Paul remembered being enchanted when the blades on top began to spin.

“That was my favorite,” Paul said, “But she had _tons._ An entire miniature Christmas village of the town near where they were stationed, all these little wooden ornaments, painted glass balls…” he trailed off, remembering each and every one. “Our neighbor, Mr. Vickers, he would take us out in his pickup truck and help us haul our tree back. Mom wouldn’t have a fake tree at Christmas if you gave her a million dollars.”

“Where was your dad?” Daryl asked quietly.

“Dad died when I was just a baby,” Paul said. His words were slurring a little, “Had a heart attack. He was only twenty-three, but had a heart condition no-one knew about.” All that Paul knew about his father had come from his mom and old pictures in albums; his parents at their junior high dance, prom, homecoming at college, their wedding, his father holding a tiny wrinkled newborn in a hospital room and grinning. Less than a year after that picture he would be at the grocery store buying diapers when he would simply drop dead in the checkout line. Paul’s looks had all come from his mom, and as hard as he would stare at those photos he never saw any of himself in his father. “My mom never got over him, far as I can tell. Didn’t really date much until I was old enough to understand, you know?”

“Kinda,” he gave a snort, “My mom wasn’t even cold ‘fore my daddy started bring other women around.”

“Your dad was a piece of shit,” Paul said, “I’m glad he’s dead. Fuck, sorry-“

“Don’t be,” Daryl said; there was an emotion in his voice Paul couldn’t quite make out, “I am too.” They walked in silence for several long minutes, before Daryl asked, “And your mom? How’d she-”

He knew didn’t have to tell Daryl the next bit, knew that the other man would respect it if Paul said he just didn’t feel like talking about it. But he found himself answering, “She started dating this guy, not seriously. Only went on a handful of dates before she called the whole thing off, I heard her tell one of her friends he was creepy. He didn’t like that. He kept calling our house. Drove down our street. We’d be out at the mall and he’d come up to her, beg her for a second chance. He came to my school once, that’s when she called the police, not that they did much.” Eighteen years later and his voice was still full of bitterness. “One night he came to our house and shot her in the face.”

Daryl slammed to a halt and stared at him, “Jesus _Christ.”_

“So they call me,” Paul replied, still walking. He’d only gone a few paces before Daryl scurried to catch up with him. They walked an entire block in silence.

“Were you there?” Daryl asked finally.

“Yes,” Paul said, “I heard the gunshot, so I grabbed Boo— my dog —and hid in my closet. Didn’t come out until the police came, Mrs. Vickers was home and she called.” He needed to stop talking about this, Daryl wasn’t his fucking therapist. He’d shared all this shit before with various counsellors and social workers of the years, he wasn’t _over_ it, he was still very much fucked up in a lot of ways because of it, but he’d learned to live with it. Processed it and moved on. “She was dead as soon as he shot her, but I didn’t _know_ that. She could have still been alive as far as I knew, needing help, and I just curled up in the back of my closet. There’s a gay joke there somewhere, I just can’t find it.”

“Don’t see nothing to joke about with that,” Daryl said quietly. “Did they catch the asshole?”

“Yeah,” Paul said, “Pretty open and shut case. I didn’t even have to testify against him.”

Daryl surprised Paul by saying, “I’m sorry you didn’t get that chance.”

Paul looked up at him, their eyes met and Daryl looked quickly away. Paul took a deep breath, grateful for the understanding. Most people took the view it was a good thing, that an eleven year old didn’t have to get up in front of a courtroom and talk about his mother’s murder. Paul knew they were right, _knew_ it wouldn’t have ended up like his fantasies, but that didn’t stop him from wishing he got the chance. To get up in front of a room full of people and tell them what a piece of shit that little worm was, how worthless and disgusting. To unload on everyone, to yell to the entire world that the police hadn’t helped her before it was too late, to tell them that his mom had been the best mom, tell them about how she made him pancakes shaped liked snowmen at Christmas time, how for his birthdays for as long as he could remember she spent weeks making decorations and fancy cakes, and everything else.

“Is he still in jail?” Daryl asked.

“No, he’s dead,” Paul said, “Hanged himself after less than a year inside, the motherfucker. I wanted him to suffer more first.” As soon as he said it he realized how insensitive it sounded given Daryl’s situation, “Sorry, I -“

“Merle’d never do that,” Daryl said, “Too damn contrary.”

“Oh,” Paul said, “That’s good.”

They were quiet again after that, walking side by side down the quiet street. It was chilly out and Daryl was hunched in his coat hugging himself. Paul had on just his hoodie and a scarf, Southerners were weak as hell when it came to cold weather. When they reached the apartment Paul asked him, “Are you going to crash here, or head on home?”

“Here, if it ain’t a problem.” Daryl answered.

“I keep telling your dumbass I wouldn’t offer if it were a problem,” Paul said as he unlocked the door and held it open for Daryl. The other man walked inside and went directly to the couch while Paul went to grab him a blanket.

It wasn’t the first time Daryl had stayed over. A few months back they’d gone to another football game, Georgia played their longtime rivals from the University of Florida and it had been a _hell_ of a game. Afterward the two of them retired to the Georgia Bar to celebrate along with most of the city. They were barely able to stagger back to the apartment hours later, and Paul took the liberty of swiping Daryl’s keys on the way. There was no way in _hell_ he would let Daryl drive that night. It turned out to be unnecessary, Daryl flopped down on the couch immediately when they got inside and passed out without even bothering to ask if it was ok. Since then Daryl slept on his couch fairly often. Paul had even cautiously brought up the idea of Daryl crashing at his place for the week following the surgery and to his surprise and pleasure Daryl agreed. Paul liked having the other man around, it was nice to have a buddy to go out for drinks or just lounge around and watch movies with.

Paul came back into his living room and tossed the blanket on Daryl’s chest. “I’m not tired yet,” Paul said, “I’m going to make a hot toddy, do you want one?”

“What the fuck is a hot toddy?”

“A delicious and a hot alcoholic beverage.”

“Do you pour four pounds of sugar in it like some of the other crap you drink?”

“No, but I can make an exception for you.”

Daryl grumbled something about Paul’s teeth rotting out and said he’d have a drink if it weren’t too much trouble. Again Paul told him that he wouldn’t offer something if it were too much trouble. As Paul walked into the kitchen he stopped to give Chaz a pat on the head, he’d taken to doing it as a joke and now it was almost a good luck charm.

When Paul was finished with the drinks he came out and gave Daryl’s legs a nudge, “Sit up. Mind if I watch TV?” Last month Paul had finally broken down and gotten a TV and the most basic cable package offered. It almost never saw any use unless it was a night Daryl decided to crash on his couch.

“Nah, I ain’t tired neither,” Daryl said.

Paul flipped around the channels until he found a hockey game and settled back against the couch. Daryl sipped on his drink and muttered, “Ain’t bad.”

“High praise indeed,” Paul said, smiling a little. The two men watched the game and sipped on their drinks. When Paul was finished he set his empty glass on the floor and leaned back, eyes half closed. Sometimes watching a game was like being hypnotized, he was vaguely aware of all the ugly thoughts he’d stirred up that night fading away.

During a commercial break there was a holiday themed ad for Coca Cola; featuring CGI polar bears underneath the Aurora Borealis.

“It just isn’t the same,” Paul murmured, hardly aware he was speaking out loud. “Christmas. Not just that I miss her, but it’s not the same. None of the decorations are right.”

Daryl stared at him wordlessly, then turned back to the TV. Not long after Paul hauled himself up to his feet and said goodnight, retreating to his bedroom.

The next morning he woke up a little hungover and a lot embarrassed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d unloaded on someone who wasn’t a professional about his mom and his sad bastard tendencies. He’d never even told his friend Nick in Chicago, and Paul had ended up getting _uncomfortably_ close to him. At least Paul didn’t have to worry that Daryl would ask him on a date anytime in the near future.

Speaking of the other man, Paul wasn’t sure if he was still in the apartment or had already headed back to Sedalia. He also wasn’t sure which option he preferred. When he stumbled out of his bedroom Daryl was still there, stretched out on his couch reading one of Paul’s books. The flush of pleasure he got at the sight of him outweighed any lingering traces of embarrassment. “Have you had breakfast yet?” Paul asked.

“Was waitin’ on you,” Daryl replied.

Paul didn’t get fancy for breakfast, just eggs and toast. After starting the coffee, Daryl sat at the kitchen table watching him mostly in silence as he cooked. In about ten minutes the food was ready, and Paul served Daryl a plate first before grabbing some for himself.

“What’re you doin’ today?” Daryl asked as he tucked into his food.

“Whole lotta nothing. Why?” Paul answered.

“Have you been to Helen since you got here? It’s up north, not far from me.”

Paul shook his head, “No, what is it?”

“It’s a town up in the mountains. There’s a lot of good hiking up there, rivers and waterfalls and shit. It’s a bit of a drive, but I thought we could go have a look around,” he fidgeted a little, “They do the town up fancy for Christmas, I think you’d like it.”

Paul snorted, “I thought I explained to you what a sad bastard I am around Christmas.”

Daryl shrugged. “Give it a shot, if you don’t like it there’s the woods to hike around in.”

Paul took a bite of his food and chewed thoughtfully. Truth be told it was an odd suggestion from Daryl Dixon in general, especially after everything Paul had unloaded on him last night. Then there was the fidgety way he was acting; sad bastard or no Paul was curious.

“Alright,” Paul said, “I wasn’t planning on doing anything else today.”

They were a few miles outside of Helen when Paul realized why Daryl thought he’d like the decorations. His first clue was a billboard advertising “Alpine Helen”. The closer they got the more obvious it became. Helen was mocked up to look like a German village—everything from the Circle K to a strip mall on the outskirts had the same faux Alpine style architecture. Even the streets were called things like Edelweiss Strasse and Brucken Strasse. The center of town was where they went all out, complete with cobbled streets.

Paul had never been to Germany so he had no idea how accurate the replica was, but it definitely fit his _idea_ of the place. It looked like Christmas had exploded on it, all quaint decorations and a massive tree in the center of town. All it needed was some snow and it could have been his mom’s Christmas Village only life-sized. Well, with some exceptions, he thought as they passed store with t-shirts that had things like REDNECK PRIDE and THE SOUTH SHALL RISE AGAIN written on them. He couldn’t help but laugh at the juxtaposition.

He glanced over at Daryl in the passenger seat, his friend was watching him with a faint smile.

“Ok,” Paul said, nothing faint about his own smile, “You were right, I do like the decorations.”

Daryl hummed pensively, “Thought you would. Want to take a look around?”

“You know it.”

Years later as Paul stared up at the twinkling stars, enjoying not being in a cage, he wondered if that was the moment he fell all the way in love with Daryl. If he hadn’t been already. He certainly wouldn’t admit it to himself for months that was what the warm feeling that expanded in his chest was, but the memory was unmistakable.

 _No way in hell am I going anywhere without you,_ Paul thought to himself, _I’m coming home and you had best be there_.


	9. Daryl: Part V

One of Daryl and Paul’s favorite things to do was to take a long weekend and go camping. They went often, especially during the spring and early fall when the weather was cooler and there was less chance of getting eaten alive by the skeeters. They crammed their small two-person tent behind Lou in the sidecar of Paul’s bike and rode up north to the Blue Ridge Mountains or east to the coast. Daryl usually rode lead position, glancing every few minutes into his review mirror to see Paul always behind him, Lou leaning out of the sidecar looking adorable as fuck in her goggles with her tongue flapping in the breeze.

They would set the tent up somewhere remote and spend the weekend just the three of them. Paul liked to fish and he _loved_ to hike; usually he’d traipse out early in the morning with Lou at his heels to explore the woods. Paul took his little digital camera with him, and when he got back Daryl would pour over the pictures. He didn’t know much about art but Daryl thought his boyfriend’s photos were pretty fucking good. None of the shit you’d see framed in a shop and sold to tourists, no scenic landscapes or foliage. Instead it was stuff like an old tree root twisted into interesting shapes, a bleached fragment of deer skull in black earth, weird bugs, a spiderweb covered in dew. A few of Daryl himself, to his great displeasure.

At night they’d sit by the fire sipping beers or hot chocolate, talking about bullshit. One night they told ghost stories, and Daryl had surprised them both with just how many he knew. Stuff he dug from the mists of his memories, from back when his Mama was still alive and his maternal Grandfather took Daryl and Merle on camping trips. Their grandad was a mean old bastard but he had a soft spot for his grandsons. Or he just liked scaring the piss out of them, telling them stories about Rawhead and Bloody Bones, the Chupacabra, Wampus beast, and the Tailypo. The last one in particular freaked Paul and he said he’d never forgive Daryl for telling it. Later that night when they were curled up together in the sleeping bag Daryl stiffened and said, “Did you hear that?”

“Huh?” Paul asked, lifting his head up from Daryl’s chest and listening. He glanced down where Lou was curled at his feet snoring away, “It didn’t wake the dog.”

“Coulda swore I heard somethin’…wait, there it is again!”

“What did it sound like?”

“It sounded like…” Daryl dug his fingers into Paul’s side and hissed, “ _Tailypo…”_

It earned him a punch in the ribs and Paul yelling that he was an asshole, which Daryl could barely hear over the sound of his own laughter. Paul tried to wriggle out of the sleeping bag but Daryl grabbed him and pinned him down against the air mattress, it let out a squeal as it rubbed against the floor of the tent. Their wrestling roused Lou, who started jumping around the tent barking. She’d only been a year old then, more puppy than dog.

“You are _evil,”_ Paul said. In between each word Daryl kissed him, quick pecks on the lips, “Get off, I’m never kissing or having sex or anything with you again…” Daryl kissed him open-mouthed then, long and languid. Paul stopped struggling and slid his arms around Daryl’s neck, opening his mouth and meeting Daryl’s tongue with his own. They didn’t get farther than making out, because after a few minutes Lou realized that the humans were not playing some new game and flopped down on the air mattress with her butt in Daryl’s face and farted. The two men groaned in disgust and rolled away, pushing her down the mattress which made her grumble in protest. It was an effective mood killer, so the two men settled down to sleep, Daryl still half on top of Paul.

“You are _such_ a dick,” Paul muttered, combing his fingers through Daryl’s hair.

“Mmhmm,” Daryl grumbled.

“I’m going to get you back, just you wait.”

“I’m terrified.”

It was a cold night, Daryl could feel it outside the little cocoon of warmth he was in, made up of dog and boyfriend. It was corny as fuck but that Daryl’s favorite part of their camping trips, the drowsy contentment that came from being safe and warm with the man he loved. The rest of the world could have vanished and it wouldn’t have made a difference.

********

One morning years later Daryl drifted awake, mind registering he was on an air mattress in a tent. He rolled over and reached out instinctively, and a confused thought _did Paul get up already I didn’t hear him,_ flickered across his mind before he woke up completely and remembered. He was on a single person air mattress, and there was another mattress against the other side. He wasn’t up in the mountains on one of their weekend camping trips, Paul hadn’t gotten up to take a leak or walk the dog or catch a fish for breakfast. Daryl woke up alone because he went to sleep alone, because Paul’s plane had gone down and there were no survivors. Daryl would wake up alone for the rest of his life. He wondered if or when he’d get used to it; if he’d ever wake up and not be confused by his empty arms.

Wondered if he even wanted to get used to it.

Daryl closed his eyes and wished he could go back to sleep so he could just not think anymore. _Wish into one hand, piss into the other, see what fills up first,_ as their Daddy was fond of saying. He took a second to gather himself and pushed out of bed. He wondered where Merle was, and hoped his brother wasn’t getting into too much trouble. _Try hoping in one hand,_ he thought to himself, _it probably fills it up just as fast as wishing._ He rolled completely out of his sleeping bag and reached for his boots. After he pulled them on he unzipped the tent and stepped outside.

It was early morning, still a bit cool and misty. By noon the mist would be burned away and it would be hotter than Satan’s asshole, but for now it was pleasant. Daryl seemed to be one of the only people awake, the camp was quiet. Old Man Eyebrows was up, sitting on the roof of his RV with a rifle in one hand. Daryl waved to him, then sauntered into the woods to take a piss, which seemed to last five years. He’d gotten roaring drunk the night before, Merle had traded some valium for a bottle of Jack and Daryl had made good use of it. He was grateful, he’d smoked all the grass long ago and had started eying some of the bottles of pills and even the little baggie of Blue Sky in Merle’s stash. The pills would be the most dangerous of the bunch. After his accident years ago he’d gotten well acquainted with opioids, and he knew he liked them a little too much. Daryl thought that if he started taking them he just wouldn’t stop, drift away on the floating cloud of an opioid high and just never come back.

When he got back to camp he saw the the two blonde sisters stumbling out of Eyebrows’ RV. The younger of the two smiled and waved to him, while her big sis looked like she had a dog turd stuck under her nose when she looked at Daryl. _Fuck her,_ Daryl thought to himself. He watched the two of them walk off toward the quarry, the younger one smiling over her shoulder at him again. She reminded Daryl of some of Paul’s student workers, whenever they went downtown on weekends they were bound to run into a few. All of them seemed so shiny and new, and they all seemed to be half in love with his boyfriend. Daryl didn’t blame them. He felt a stab of pain in his heart, it was like he was always walking through a minefield and getting blasted when he wasn’t expecting it.

They’d found the camp nearly a month ago, just days after Atlanta burned to the ground. The two brothers were stuck in the massive snarl of traffic, arguing over whether to continue on foot or ride double on the bike since it could weave in and of traffic. Before they could come to an agreement on what to do they heard helicopter engines roaring above them. Then flashes of light tumbling from the sky, then the thunder of explosions. _Napalm,_ Daryl thought, _they’re dropping fucking napalm in the streets._ Around him the crowd was gasping in horror and some were crying. Daryl watched the flames burning and started to laugh, so hard that he was bent double and slapping his knees.

Merle grabbed him, “Fuck’s your problem?” His brother was pale, face unusually sober. Daryl shook his head; unable to explain or make himself stop. His emotions had been all over the map; explosive rage, grief so thick he cried himself to sleep some nights, and apparently half-sane hilarity. He couldn’t help it, there was just something so darkly amusing about their situation. After all the shit he and Merle went through to get to the city, fighting hordes of dead motherfuckers, finding detours around the carnage that made driving almost impossible, after all _that,_ the city was in sight and their journey was almost over. Daryl just had to laugh at it being set on fire just then.

The following days were a confused mess; trying to find their way through the panicked mass of humanity, trying to get off the road and go _somewhere_ that wasn’t city.Their first inclination was to turn back east, towards Fontana and Athens, but they were forced to turn back toward Atlanta. Everywhere they went was overrun with the dead, an entire city’s worth of corpses looking for dinner. The dead sumbitches were bad enough but some of the living ones they ran into were even worse.

“West, maybe,” Merle said, “Toward Fort Benning.” He made a face; Fort Benning had been where he’d gone through boot camp during his brief stint in the army. Fort Benning was south against the Alabama border, it would be a job to reach it. They’d barely gotten clear of Atlanta when they were forced to seek cover, running from a mass of the dead. They were able to shake them off about ten miles west of the city, up a mountain that had once been a state park. They found an isolated spot and pulled off the road, sleeping in the bed of the truck again, taking turns at watch. They’d run out of food a few days prior, both brothers were tired and hungry. The woods seemed to be a likely spot for game, so in the morning they set out to hunt.

After a few hours with little to show for it Daryl heard the distinct sound of a twig snapping. He froze, and saw that Merle had heard it as well. The two brothers exchanged looks then moved forward soundlessly in the direction of the noise. It sounded like an elephant, and Daryl had the sinking suspicion it was a walker instead of something they could eat. Daryl raised his crossbow to his shoulder while Merle stepped to the side with his rifle at the ready, both prepared to shoot whatever it was. There was another snap of twigs, and a kid came out of the woods. He had blue eyes, freckles, and looked no older than eleven or so. He was very much alive.

“Oh,” he said, eyes wide with surprise when he registered the two men.

“Shee-it,” Merle said, relaxing, “Boy, best be careful in these woods. We almost blowed your head clean off.”

“I thought you were my mom,” the kid said, studying the two men fearlessly. He wasn’t shy in the least, the way a lot of kids his age could be around strangers, “I haven’t seen either of you at camp.”

“You got a camp round here?” Daryl asked.

“Yessir. There’s a bunch of us camped out just in through there,” he gestured back the way he’d come.

Daryl and Merle traded glances; debating it wordlessly. They’d seen the wreckage of plenty of camps on their journey. Still these people seemed to be smarter than most, if they were camped up here on the mountain. The dead didn’t seem to have overrun this area yet. Maybe they’d be willing to trade for some food, Daryl was confident he and Merle could scrounge something up but he didn’t feel like chasing something down for hours if he didn’t have to.

Before they could answer a woman’s voice called out, “ _Carl!”_ followed shortly by the woman herself. She was skinny with long, dark hair and looked pale and harried. She slammed to a halt when she saw the Dixon brothers, eyes skittering over their weapons. She was pretty, enough so that Merle gave her a leer.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Merle said, “Your boy was just telling us you had a camp round here.”

“Honey,” the woman said, never taking her eyes from the two brothers. “Why don’t you run and get Shane? Tell them we have some new people.” Her voice was artificially calm. The boy looked confused, eyes darting between his mother and the two men, but he reluctantly started back the way he came.

“Lets all go ’n talk to Shane,” Merle said, making as though to follow the boy.

“Merle,” Daryl muttered, stepping closer to his brother. The woman was clearly scared out of her wits, understandably so, “Ma’am,” Daryl said, addressing her, “We’re both wore out; if you got a camp nearby we’d appreciate a place to rest up. We ain’t lookin’ for trouble.”

“Well, then we won’t give you any,” she said, “My hus— my, my, my brother-in-law, he can talk to you.”

Said “brother-in-law” stumbled out of the forest not long after she finished speaking. The guy had dark hair, big brown eyes, and a handsome face that was kept from being boring due to a crooked nose that looked like it had been broken more than once. One glance at the way he carried himself and Daryl _knew_ the guy was a cop, something reinforced by the tone of his voice when he said, “Can I help you gentlemen?” He had a gun strapped to his hip, hand draped loosely around the handle.

“Just enjoyin’ the afternoon,” Merle said, “Still a free country, ain’t it?”

Daryl glanced at his brother, the stance of his shoulders and the mean look in his eyes. If Daryl had pegged this guy for a cop then Merle had too, and he looked like he was ready to start something for the sheer hell of it. He probably _would_ have, if the kid hadn’t decided that moment to pop out of the woods again.

“Carl, I told you to stay at camp,” the cop said, in the tone of someone who had given this order many times before and never had it followed, “Why don’t you walk your mom back?”

Before the kid and his mom could take off Daryl repeated, “You got a camp ‘round here? Me’n my brother been on the run from the dead past couple days, we could use a chance to rest, and if you’ve got food we can trade you for it. Right, Merle?” Daryl said. He shot a quick look at his brother. Merle was a sonofabitch but Daryl knew he wouldn’t start some shit in front of a kid.

Merle grinned bit but his eyes still looked like they wanted trouble. Thankfully he didn’t give any right then, just agreed with Daryl. After a few minutes’ tension the cop relaxed and nodded. “We can spare a bit, and watch your back while you rest. There’s ‘bout twenty of us or so. I’m Shane and this is Lori and Carl.”

The two brothers introduced themselves then followed them toward the camp. Lori and Carl were a few feet ahead of them when Shane leaned in and said, “You two are welcome to stay so long as you don’t make trouble and don’t go bothering any of the women.”

Daryl stared at him. He wondered what the expression on ol’ Shane’s face would be if he just bluntly said, _Yeah, I’m gay_.

“Your gal’s a bit too boney for me, don’t worry,” Merle said before he could, loud enough that Lori heard and turned her head, cheeks pink, “I mean your _brother’s_ gal.”

When Shane turned his back Merle looked over at Daryl and mouthed, _Dick._ Daryl wanted to tell him it took one to know one.

******

They decided to stay at camp for lack of anywhere else to go. Fort Benning hadn’t been a firm plan. They didn’t make any friends but they were accepted, especially after they went on a hunt and came back with an armload of rabbits. The Dixon brothers had pitched their tent on the outskirts of the camp by mutual agreement. The other survivors bothered them less and it would be easier to tear off and run if they needed to. The latter seemed more and more likely; Daryl had a feeling that one day Merle would mouth off to Shane the Dick at just the wrong moment and all hell would break lose. Daryl was pretty sure his brother could take him it came to it, but now there were close to thirty people in camp and not one of them would stick up for the brothers.

He didn’t know how much longer they could stay here, Merle stared at their fellow survivors and Daryl did not like his look. _Don’t borrow trouble,_ he thought to himself, although with Merle off somewhere at the moment it was hard not to.

He decided to take a look at the engine of the battered old Dodge, see if he could get it working. It belonged to one of the surviving families, and had been running just fine until it up and died one morning. Daryl had asked to take a look at it but hadn’t gotten to it for the past few days. They were planning on sending a group to the city for supplies later that day, it would be nice to have another working car. Daryl was forced to ask Old Man Eyebrows if he could borrow some tools. Eyebrows looked like he was on the toilet trying to squeeze out a stubborn shit but said yes anyway. 

Daryl got to work, trying not to think of his tools in their garage in Athens. But it was difficult, not the least of which because there was a _lot_ back in their house that he wanted even more than his tools. _Wish in one hand._

He was interrupted after what felt like nearly an hour, “What are you doing, Mr. Dixon?”

Daryl looked up, it was one of the kids, a little blonde girl. She was staring at him with wide, solemn eyes. He looked around for the boy, Carl, one usually wasn’t far from the other. 

“Tryin’ to see if I can get this motor work,” Daryl replied. He wiped the grease from his hands, “Where’s your friend?”

She wrinkled her nose with distaste, “Him and Shane are hunting for frogs.”

“What’s with the face? Frogs is real good eating.”

“They’re _slimy,”_ she protested.

“Not if you cook ‘em up. But you have to do it a special way, or you’ll get warts on your tongue.”

The expression on her face startled a laugh out of him, the first genuine one since the end of the world. It was a warm chuckle that sounded strange in his ears, not that barely sane cackling he made after watching Atlanta burn. She narrowed her eyes and said, “I know you’re just foolin’.”

“Sophia, you’re not bothering Mr. Dixon, are you?” The girl’s mother had joined them. Daryl thought she was called Karen or Carol, something like that. She was a smaller woman, dark gray hair cut boyishly short. She did the laundry of most the camp along with some of the other women. She was quiet and kept her head down, Daryl thought she wouldn’t have said ‘shit’ if she had a mouthful.

Sophia shook her head, and Daryl added, “No ma’am, she isn’t.”

“Well, I know she can get underfoot sometimes,” Karen or Carol said, “So long as she’s not in the way,” she smiled cheerfully at Daryl, which made him uneasy. Despite the heat of the day she wore a shirt with long sleeves and her smile didn’t touch her eyes. Daryl had met her husband Ed, the guy tried cozying up to Merle and Daryl both as the only two “real men” in camp. Merle allowed for about an hour before running him off, telling the Daryl the guy was a jackass. He wondered if like Daryl that Merle had recognized a few things about Ed.

Daryl looked over at where Sophia was watching him and recognized a few more things. He gritted his teeth. It wasn’t his business. He grunted in reply to Karen/Carol and the other woman went back to her chores, still keeping an eye on Sophia, who Daryl almost forgot was there a couple of times. The girl was just so quiet, not like her boisterous friend. A few times she asked a shy question about what exactly Daryl was doing, but he didn’t mind talking to her, she didn’t press him if he gave only one word answers.

Another hour passed before Carl returned, along with the two blonde sisters and Shane the Dick. Walking a little ways from the older sister was Merle, grinning a grin Daryl did not like. The elder sister looked like she was three seconds away from decking Daryl’s big brother. She glared at Merle’s retreating back as he sauntered over to Daryl. His presence caused Sophia to scurry back to her mom.

“Think I gotta shot with Blondie?” Merle asked Daryl, eyes on the woman in question.

Daryl didn’t dignify that with a response other than a quick snort of laughter.

Merle laughed back, “Got a better shot than Old Man Eyebrows does.”

“Them walkers we killed th’other day got a better shot than Old Man Eyebrows.”

“Fuck _you,_ little brother,” Merle said, but he didn’t try to argue. “Her sister’s a good kid. She seems a little sweet on you, which is a fucking waste.”

Daryl glanced at his brother’s face. Merle didn’t sound cruel or mocking; he sounded almost friendly. Just breaking his balls, same way he’d call Daryl a dummy or ruffle his hair. Annoying big brother stuff, like the fact that Daryl was gay was the same as anything else Merle might fuck with him about, not some unforgivable sin. Daryl felt a rush of warmth toward his brother, getting a glimpse of how he _could_ be.

Merle had to ruin it, of course, “That big ol’ spear-chucker’s been sniffin’ around blondie too. _He’s_ the one Shane the Dick should be warning away from the women folk, they all fantasize ‘bout havin’ a white woman.”

Daryl looked away, “T’s alright,” he said, even if T-Dogg hadn’t spoken a civil word to them since they’d been at camp. But Daryl couldn’t say as he blamed him.

“Oooh, well excuse me Mr. _Politically Correct_ college boy. You ’n old Kunta Kinte best friends now?”

“No, just don’t have nothing against him in particular,” Daryl said evasively.

“My sweet baby brother,” Merle said. _Now_ he sounded mocking and cruel. “You’d better wake up to the way the world works, way it’s always worked. I learned a thing or two ‘bout that in prison.”

“We ain’t in prison,” Daryl muttered.

Merle laughed, sounding ugly, “No, we’re someplace worse. Listen up, baby brother. Every man’s for himself, these days more’n ever, and you can only trust your own people.”

 _Like the people who ratted you out to the pigs, Merle?_ Daryl thought, but did not say. It wasn’t worth arguing over; he doubted he could ever stop Merle from being an ignorant son of a bitch. A _willfully_ ignorant son of a bitch. He sighed wearily. Hatred took energy even when it was deserved and grief had eaten up most of Daryl’s. He wouldn’t have been able to hate T-Dogg even if Paul hadn’t knocked out a good deal of ignorant bullshit outta him before they even started dating. Living in Athens had taken care of the rest of it; growing up in Sedalia there was maybe one black family, in Athens nearly a third of the people Daryl saw weren’t white. Marty, Daryl’s favorite coworker and almost-friend, was a black guy and they got on like a house on fire. Daryl still said some dumb things every now and then but Marty could be just as dumb about the gay thing so it all came out in the wash.

After working together for over a year Marty started inviting Daryl over to his house for his weekly poker games and to a couple family barbecues. _Bring your guy with you,_ Marty said when he extended barbecue invitations, and _leave your guy at home_ for the poker games. Paul had earned a lifetime ban after only one game because he had a hell of a poker face and Daryl was literally the only person who stood a chance against him.

It occurred to Daryl that Marty, his old lady, and his kids were probably dead. The kids were just babies, the oldest about six, the youngest no more than two. Probably all of Daryl and Paul’s friends and their friends’ families were dead. Daryl had smashed Neighbor Dan’s head in himself, and killed another of their neighbors. Paul’s loss had been so overwhelming and all encompassing that Daryl hadn’t given much thought to anyone else.

“Fuck’s sake Darylina, I didn’t mean to get you blubbering again,” Merle said, interrupting these thoughts, “Dry your eyes and come with me, I got some things I wanna talk to you ‘bout.”

“Fuck off,” Daryl said, but he set the tools down, wiped his hands, and followed Merle back to their tent and beyond, moving into the woods. When they were out of view of the camp Merle stepped in close and muttered, “I think this camp’s ‘bout done. We oughtta move on.”

Daryl frowned, his guard up. There was no real reason for Merle to talk about leaving the camp in secret. There was something more, “Okay,” Daryl said slowly, “Where you thinkin’? Fort Benning?”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Merle said, “But I been thinking, enough of them biters in the city, eventually they’ll head this way. These people ain’t worth a damn when it comes to surviving, most are city folk. Just drag us down with ‘em.” Merle paused, staring at Daryl without blinking, “Before we leave we need to be well-provisioned. Food, ammo, gas.”

“We’re doing that run today, we can find something—“

“We don’t need to look for nothin’, dummy. Everything we need’s right here.”

Daryl stared at him, “What’re you saying?”

“I’m _saying_ we clean this place out tonight when we get back.”

“Fucking hell, Merle, they got women here, and little kids.”

“So what? Every man for hisself, and even if it weren’t how many times did you and me feed those brats with what we hunted? In exchange for what, ol’ mouse girl washing the skid marks outta your underwear? We’s _owed.”_

Daryl dropped his eyes, feeling resistance melt away. He was just so fucking tired. “Merle, it ain’t gotta be this way. It ain’t right.”

Merle threw his hands up in frustration, “What the hell happened to your _balls_ , son? A few years being _roommates_ with ol’ Jesus, and you’re some kinda saint?”

Daryl felt a dull rage pound behind his temple. Merle had been good to his word, he hadn't mentioned Paul in all the time they’d spent together, and now he was going to throw it in his face. “I told you not to talk ‘bout him to me.”

“Or you kill me,” Merle said, sounding angry, “You think I’m some kinda devil, I’m just telling you how it’s gotta be. You don’t have to help, but you gonna stop me? Kill me?”

“Damnit Merle,” Daryl spat, turning away and rubbing his face, “I don’t see why…” he trailed off, something clicking in his mind. He turned back to his brother, “How’d you know he looked like Jesus?” Daryl asked, pulse thudding.

“Huh?”

“You called ‘im ‘Jesus’,” Daryl said slowly, “Why?”

Merle stared at him, and Daryl was reminded forcefully of the way he’d looked at him in the prison. That weird mix of anger, disgust, and a little bit of fear. His brother’s mind was often a mystery to him.

“I guess he never told you,” Merle said after a long pause, “But your boy paid me a visit.”

“What?” Daryl asked, stunned.

“Few months before the end. Right before my first parole hearing that went oh-so well.”

Daryl said nothing, still stunned. Paul _hadn’t_ told him he’d visited Merle, had never so much as _hinted_ at it. _A few months before the end,_ Daryl thought. He remembered how a few months before the end, around the time Merle was talking about, Daryl had been a bit of a wreck for a few weeks. Daryl hadn’t spoken to Merle in years but that didn’t mean he’d forgotten when Merle would be up for parole. Daryl had been upset and nervous and guilty and just a little longing. He’d _missed_ Merle, even if he was relieved Merle wasn’t in his life. Daryl wanted to talk to him, but was afraid of visiting the jail, afraid Merle wouldn’t see him, afraid that Merle wouldn’t contact him if he got out. Paul had been supportive, even if he detested Merle. Why the hell hadn’t he mentioned going see Daryl’s brother? “What…why the hell’d he do that?”

“Said he wanted to talk to me,” Merle said.

“About?

“This and that,” Merle said, “Extend me an invitation to visit if I got out, but said he’d kill me if I tried dragging you down to ‘my level’ _._ He was somethin’ else. Looked all sweet and innocent, but I could tell he was one cold-blooded son of a bitch under all that. Almost understand what you saw him.”

Daryl was breathing hard; trying to get a hold of himself enough to respond without crying. What the fuck did it matter? Paul was _dead,_ and Merle was all Daryl had left. If Merle was hellbent on robbing these strangers then what the hell was Daryl supposed to do? Turn his back on him? Rat him out? Kill him, like he’d threatened? He’d have nothing then. He swallowed hard, “Look, ok,” Daryl said, voice unsteady, “Not tonight, though. We need to think about it. Come up with a plan.”

Merle looked surprised, then cautious, “You mean the camp? Fine. When we get back—“

Daryl shook his head, “Nah, you go. Gonna see if I can catch us dinner.”

Merle didn’t look happy, “Don’t care if you’re mad at me, I don’t want to split up—“

“I ain’t gonna snitch on you, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Daryl spat.

“ _That_ what you think I’m worried about?” Merle answered.

“Don’t need you babying me, neither.”

Merle looked ready to start another fight, but he gave in reluctantly. They made their way back to camp, where the supply runners were getting ready. It would be Glenn, an Asian kid who’d barely said two words to Daryl; Blondie the elder; Merle’s best buddy T-Dogg; a Mexican guy called Morales; and Jacqui, a black gal who also rarely spoken to the brothers Dixon.

“Wait, Daryl, you’re not coming?” said Jacqui. Her mouth twisted in a frown and she side-eyed Merle.

“Nope, you’re gonna get this all to yourself today,” Merle said, grinning wide.

“Wonderful,” muttered Blondie.

*******

The woods were quiet and peaceful, the geeks rarely came this far up the mountain. After the group left Daryl dithered at camp for a few minutes before telling Eyebrows he was going on a hunt and would be be gone overnight instead of just the day, and to let Merle know he was ok. Now for the first time in _weeks_ he didn’t have Merle hissing in his ear, and it was a lot easier to think. He wondered if there would be away to make off with the camp’s supplies without anyone noticing, just slip off into the night. No one needed to get hurt.

 _What the fuck are you doing, Dixon?_ The voice in his head sounded a lot like Paul’s. Daryl could picture the other man easily, face completely still, eyes cold as glaciers. Daryl had only seen that face a handful of times and in each instance it meant a night on the couch.

 _Hunting,_ Daryl thought. _That’s all I’m doing._

 _You know what the fuck I meant_. If this were a real conversation Daryl would have just gotten extra night on the couch.

A lump rose in Daryl’s throat and he was blinking back tears. _What am I doing? I’m hiding from my brother and arguing with my dead boyfriend about it. Besides, you're one to talk. Why’d you never say anything ‘bout visiting Merle?_ There was no answer, because Daryl wasn’t talking to Paul, not really, it was just his own thoughts. His eyes burned and he tilted his head back. No tears came. Paul was dead, what did it matter what he would have thought? Dead because Daryl was too much of a chickenshit to ride a damned airplane, something Paul had done dozens of times. What did it matter that he hadn’t mentioned paying a visit to Merle? Paul was just being protective, Daryl probably would have done the same if their situations were reversed. Paul had probably planned on telling him eventually anyways. Daryl just _wished_ he could talk to him about.

 _Wish in one hand,_ he thought. He rubbed his hand over his face and moved on.

******

The first part of his hunt didn’t go particularly well. He wasn’t able to get more than a couple squirrels before the sun went down. He spent the night in a tree, using his belt to secure himself to the trunk. It wasn’t very comfortable, and he slept fitfully.

The following morning things started looking up. He found the track of a deer, and after following it a few miles had it in his sights. He aimed the bow and fired. The deer jumped up and shot away and Daryl cursed in frustration. He found splashes of blood on the ground when he went to inspect it, feeling a bit better. Not a kill shot but he _had_ hit it, and there was a trail a blind man could follow, and it looked like his deer was heading straight for camp. Would save him dragging the thing.

After several miles Daryl stumbled out of the bushes and almost ran into the little knot of survivors. Eyebrows, Shane the Dick, and the rest of the supply runners. There was also a guy Daryl didn’t recognize, must’ve found him on the run into the city. Daryl saw Merle wasn’t with them, he was probably sulking back at camp. Daryl wasn’t sure if he wanted to talk to him just yet. He was about to ask Andrea what Merle’s mood was like when he noticed the bloody carcass of the deer he’d been tracking next to a dead walker.

“Motherfucker, that was _my_ deer!” Daryl spat out. That rage was there again, that same anger that took hold of him weeks ago at the gas station. He cursed and kicked the dead Walker in frustration.

“Son, that’s not helping anything—“ Eyebrows said in that patronizing tone of his, like Daryl didn’t have a brain in his head.

“What do you know about it, old man?” Daryl spat, “Why don’t you take that hat and go back to _On Golden Pond?_ I been trackin’ this deer for miles. Was going to bring it back to camp and cook us up some venison.”

Daryl studied the carcass and chewed on his lip. He wondered how this thing spread, whether it was by bites alone or something in the blood or both, or if cooking the food up killed the infection. “What d’ya think?” he asked no-one in particular, “Think we can cut around it, eat the rest?”

“I would not risk that,” Shane the Dick said. Daryl wanted to argue with him on principle but he had a point.

“That’s a damn shame,” Daryl sighed. The deer would have provided at least fifty pounds worth of meat, enough for the whole camp to have some for the next three nights if they were careful about serving sizes. Would have helped ease Daryl’s conscious a little, to know he was leaving them some food. “Well I got about a dozen squirrels, that’ll have to do.” He hoped they’d found something good in the city. There was a bit of movement out of the corner of his eye followed by the a disgusted murmur from the sisters. He looked down and saw that they’d just cut the head off the walker and left it there, its mouth opening and closing, just waiting for some poor unwary sumbitch to trip over it and get bit. Or even one of the kids to come play with it, Shane the Dick’s kid had a bigger set of balls than half the grown men at camp and Daryl could easily imagine him poking it with a stick. “What the _hell,_ people?” Daryl snapped, and shot an arrow through the head’s eye and it went still. “It’s gotta be the brain,” he said, jerking the arrow out of corpse’s skull, “don’t y’all know nothing?”

He continued on his way to camp, hollering for Merle. He got no answer, and hoped his brother wasn’t too pissy. Then Daryl saw the way everyone in camp was looking at him. That quietly horrified sympathy. _Fuck._ He heard himself ask if Merle was dead.

“We’re not sure,” Shane the Dick responded after a moment of silence.

“Either he is, or he ain’t,” Daryl snarled.

The new guy stepped forward and said, “Listen, there’s no easy way to say this.”

Daryl turned to him, really taking him in for the first time. New Guy was about his own height, slim and handsome with brown curls and familiar blue eyes. As with Shane, it took Daryl all of five seconds to recognize this guy was a cop.

“Who the hell are you?” Daryl asked.

“I’m Rick Grimes.”

“Rick Grimes,” Daryl growled, feeling out the syllables of the name in his mouth, “You got somethin’ you wanna tell me?”

*******

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, I had a busy month.


	10. Paul: Part V

The old Chevy died just south of Amicalola. Paul wasn’t sure what the problem was, just that it was beyond his rudimentary repair skills. Daryl had only shown him the basics when it came to cars, he’d saved the detail for motorcycles. The two of them had spent many Sunday afternoons in the garage tinkering on their respective bikes and arguing over the radio station. It was relaxing, working with his hands, turning over to watch Daryl work on the more complicated stuff.

Paul gave the Chevy a sad little pat, it had served him faithfully since Knoxville. He needed to find something else if he didn’t want to go the last eighty miles on foot. Which was not an appealing option for a number of reasons, not the least of which being it had taken him more than a week to _drive_ the one hundred and twenty or so between here and Knoxville. He was forced to stop  and sometimes double back over and over again— traffic jams, masses of the dead, and occasionally by other people.

Paul looked around, he was on a narrow country road surrounded by woods, distant hills, and a whole lot of nothing. Advantage of taking back roads was there were less of the dead to deal with, disadvantage was less to scavenge. That didn’t just go for cars; he was down to his last MRE and a bit of jerky as far as food went, and was saving both until he got desperate. His ammunition situation was worse; he was down to three rounds left in the pistol he’d stolen from quarantine what seemed like a lifetime ago. It wasn’t his only weapon, he’d lucked out in a sporting goods store outside of Nashville. The place had been picked over but he’d been able to find a few things, the most useful being a hammock and an ice axe. Paul gathered up his supplies and got moving; there were only a few hours of daylight left.

******

The soldiers had been reluctant to give Paul much in the way of supplies before he left the for Athens. “I’m not trying to be an asshole,” one of them said, “but we’re gonna need this stuff, if we give it away to everyone who wants to hack it on their own there’s less to protect the rest of these civilians. We got some kids here, man.”

“I don’t need much,” Paul said. The soldier couldn’t have been more than nineteen or so, the same age as some of his students. The kid seemed sincere and Paul understood him. “I’ve got this gun,” he gestured to the pistol he’d swiped when he made his escape, “I just need some ammo and a few of those MREs, I can make do.”

The soldier still seemed hesitant but gave in at Findley’s quiet insistence. Findley still obviously disapproved of Paul’s decision to head for Athens, but he didn’t say anything other than, “Good luck. I’ll be sure the little man and his mama make it ok.” Paul realized that he liked the guy, and felt marginally better leaving Carmen and Mateo knowing Findley would be there.

Paul had trouble finding words when the time came to say goodbye to Carmen herself. They’d only known each other a few weeks but Paul felt more attached to her than most of the friends he’d made in the years since he’d moved to Georgia, with the obvious exception of Daryl. Mateo was still flushed and feverish; looking at him sleeping fitfully in his mother’s arms gave Paul a stab of guilt. The quarantined survivors needed all the help they could get in order to reach DC, and Paul knew that if he could talk to Daryl his boyfriend would tell him to stay. If their situations were reversed then Paul would have felt the same, would have wanted Daryl to stay with a group of trained soldiers and go somewhere safe. Not that the other man would have done it any more than Paul was going to. Findley’s words came to him unbidden, that Daryl probably wasn’t even still alive. The thought constricted Paul’s lungs and made breathing difficult. He couldn’t think about that possibility, not yet. 

“Are you worried I’m going to ask you to stay?” Carmen murmured after he was silent for over a minute.

Paul couldn’t answer at first, and reached out to brush his fingers against Mateo’s forehead. “Yeah, I am.” There was nothing that could stop him from looking for Daryl, but this was going to hurt.

“I’m not,” she replied. When Paul met her eyes something about his face made her smile, soft and sad. “If Steve were still alive and I didn’t have this little guy to look after there’s nothing that could stop me from trying to get to him.” She let out a little noise that wasn’t a laugh and wasn’t a sob, “Not that it makes this suck any less.”

“If…” Paul swallowed, “ _When_ I find him we’ll head for DC, ok? Keep an eye out for us.”

Carmen smiled a little, then shifted Mateo to one arm. She stretched her other arm out, and Paul stepped closer to let her wrap it around his shoulders, returning the embrace carefully so not to jostle the baby. Her eyes were wet when they pulled away.

“Hey, _vaya con dios,_ ” Carmen said, sniffling a little, “you’re going to find him, I know you are. I’ll see you in DC. Looking forward to meeting him.”

******

The sun had almost touched the horizon and Paul was starting to think that he’d have to sleep in the hammock that night when he spotted a small, weathered farmhouse with an equally weathered shed behind it in the distance. He quickened his pace, eyeing the sinking sun. When he got there he found the place had been abandoned. He found no bodies or booby traps, or signs that anyone had been there recently at all. Several weeks’ worth of dust coated every surface. In the kitchen drawers and cabinets were left hanging open. He found a box of cereal that was about half full in one of them, and a can of pears in another.

“A feast,” he whispered to himself. He ate the entire can of pears and most of the cereal, then pulled the bag from the box and twisted it closed before packing it away with the rest of his food. He was still hungry, and stared longingly at his last MRE; they were revolting but filling. He shook his head and reminded himself that he wasn’t desperate yet. “Desperate” was not an abstract concept to him, it was something he’d experienced firsthand more than once in his teens. He packed his food away and settled in for the night.

The next morning he woke with the sun and searched the house more thoroughly for anything useful. He didn’t find much— some bandaids, a pair of shears, some heavy gardening gloves. He gave the kitchen a final sweep, noticing the little key rack on the wall. Most looked like house keys, but there was one with a keychain shaped like the winged Honda logo. His pulse quickened and he grabbed that one then went outside so he could search the shed, crossing all of his fingers.

“Oh, fucking thank you _Jesus_ ,” Paul whispered when he reached the shed and peered inside. The bike was an off-road model that looked older than god, with mud splattered over the tire guards and rusty handlebars. It was small and absurdly lightweight, nothing like his own bike. He wheeled it outside, slung a leg over it, and twisted the key. The bike puttered to life, and he let out a little whoop of delight. The thing’s engine sounded more like an electric shaver than a real bike, but it ran, and he could go around almost any obstacle on it. He wondered if he needed to take the bike off-road he could do it without flying off and cracking his skull open. Only one way to find out.

A few minutes later he was swinging back onto the road and heading south, wind blowing through his hair. The tank was more than half full, and he thought if nothing major stood in his way he would reach Athens by that night. Tomorrow at the latest if he made a stop in Sedalia to see if Daryl had come that way, but he was desperate to get to the house.

Paul’s rational mind knew that Daryl wouldn’t be just waiting for him there, that the other man must have fled by now, towards the city or up in these mountains. He didn’t know what he expected to find, if Daryl would have left anything behind Paul could use to track him down. Still, rational mind or no, some tiny, hopeful part of his heart wanted Daryl to be there barricaded inside the house or somewhere else nearby where Paul could easily find him. He tried not to think about it, tried not think of pulling into the driveway and walking through the front door and seeing Daryl there, of running into his arms and holding him tight.

******

Paul reached Athens at noon the following day. Sedalia had been a waste of time, he should have known even the damned apocalypse wouldn’t be enough to make Daryl go back. He had to dodge his first horde just outside the city limits, zipping the bike back around and taking an alternate route. This close to the house and he was about to scream in frustration. A few turns and backtracking later and he made it into the city, puttering down Broad Street. He had to stop his bike when he swung past the Georgia Bar. He stared at the unassuming building. The windows had been smashed, like every other store or restaurant he passed, garbage strewn in the street. He was surprised to feel his heart tighten in grief; it was just a bar, and he’d seen worse destruction on his journey than this.

But he couldn’t help it, there were so many memories of that bar. The first time they went for drinks after Daryl’s apology for being an ignorant jackass. The times they played pool or darts, trash talking each other and laughing. It was _their_ bar, they still frequented it, and the owner had dog treats under the bar for when they brought Lou with them.

It had been at the Georgia Bar that Paul had gotten smashed out of gourd, so drunk he was able to get the nerve to kiss Daryl for first time later, and fuck the other man very much for saying that memory didn’t count. _In vino veritas,_ he told Daryl once, _That means—_

_I may be a dumb redneck but I can guess what it means. Still don’t count._

Paul stared at the bar for several moments, just remembering, before continuing toward the house.

**********

It had been over three years since that kiss, on a Saturday night after one of Daryl’s visits with Merle. Earlier that week Paul was at work processing a new order of books. It was pretty mindless work, just adding tattle tape and a barcode if they didn’t have any. Brainless or not he enjoyed it, something to occupy his hands while he listened to music or NPR on his computer. Not long into his day he heard a familiar _ding_ noise from his earbuds.

He glanced up from his work at his computer screen where a chat window had popped up.

mcmanus79: _hey sexy! in athens saturday night for a conference. can i take u to dinner? or we can go to my hotel room and order room service if u prefer ;)_

Paul groaned internally; he’d made a tremendous mistake months ago to celebrate New Year’s in Atlanta. It was Daryl’s fault, after his surgery he’d ended up staying at Paul’s through Christmas, the first one in years Paul hadn’t spent the entire holiday being a sad bastard. Then Daryl went back home right before New Year’s and it made Paul feel uncharacteristically lonely. He considered staying in Athens for New Year’s but there was an itch he needed scratched so he headed into Atlanta. The gay scene in Athens was just too small sometimes and he didn’t want to risk running into a hookup later. He’d run into Tim at a bar in Midtown by chance, was several drinks into the evening, and sleeping with him seemed like a good idea.

Paul started to type that he already had plans when he realized that he didn’t. Not official ones, anyway. He just assumed that Daryl would be in town to visit Merle and they’d go out after. It had become his Saturday routine that spring, Daryl didn’t even bother calling him anymore to ask if he was free, only if he wouldn’t be able to make it. Which he hadn’t done that week and it was already Thursday, so Paul typed:

pjrovia: _Sorry,_ _I_ _can’t, already have plans. Next time? :)_

mcmanus79: _damnit knew i should have asked sooner. who’s the lucky guy? :D_

pjrovia: _Just Daryl._

mcmanus79: _my fave client! never had someone who could tell me to fuck off & die w only a grunt_

pjrovia: _That’s just Daryl being Daryl. He’s a good guy._

mcmanus79: _lol i was being sincere! i get why u like him. u change ur mind or finish early i’ve got a suite @ the hilton :O=8 (that’s me blowing u btw)_

pjrovia: _WORK COMPUTER_

mcmanus79: _u get fired i’ll help u sue :P(*) (me licking ur asshole)_

Paul closed the chat window and put himself as “offline” before Tim could say anything worse. He shook his head and looked around, no one else in tech services had noticed him chatting. He put _This American Life_ back on and got back to work, mentally replaying his chat with Tim. He felt disquieted for reasons he could’t really explain. 

Saturday morning came and Paul was still thinking about it as he made coffee and breakfast in his little kitchen. He was still just as disquieted by it. Paul hadn’t even needed to _think_ for an excuse, Saturdays were reserved for Daryl Dixon, and had been for the past several months. Paul supposed he could call Daryl and cancel. He didn’t even _have_ to sleep with Tim but so what if he did? He’d get a nice dinner out of it at least, and he hadn’t had sex with anyone since their ill-advised hookup on New Year’s nearly six months ago. But the thought made him feel uncomfortably melancholy; he’d rather play darts or pool with Daryl at the Georgia Bar than have a fancy dinner followed by reliably good sex.

 _Don’t go getting a crush on your straight best friend, it is such a fucking cliche,_ Paul admonished himself, then again at thinking of Daryl as his “best” friend. Paul couldn’t remember the last time he thought of anyone in those terms, not since he was a kid. Paul had plenty of friends, but they were all shallow relationships. People he enjoyed when they occupied the same space but easy to disentangle when he needed to.

Paul glanced over at the side of the refrigerator where a magnetic dry-erase board. Ostensibly it was for reminders to himself, but over the past few months its primary purpose was to keep track of how many times he beat Daryl at pool or darts and vice versa. Last time they went out Paul had _slaughtered_ him, he wrote it on the board gleefully. Daryl had drawn a crude hand with its middle finger raised underneath the date and score.

******

“Somethin’ the matter?” Daryl asked him later that night at the Georgia Bar. They were a pitcher of beer into the evening and playing a game of darts while they waited for “their” pool table to open up.

“Hmmm?” Paul said, turning his attention back to Daryl.

“You been quiet all night,” Daryl said, taking aim with a dart and then throwing it with a neat flick of his wrist. There was a soft _thunk_ as it hit the target, a fucking bulls-eye of course. There was a second dart already next to it.

“I’m fine,” he lied. Usually going out with Daryl cheered him up, but his general melancholy just got worse as the evening wore on. Although he could hardly tell Daryl why, he barely understood it himself. _I think I have a crush on you, which normally are fun but it’s making me sad as all fuck._ He poured the last dregs of beer into his glass, gulped it down, and said, “Another pitcher?”

“Let me get it,” Daryl said quickly, fumbling for his wallet.

“You can get round three,” Paul said, waving him off.

Daryl stubbornly pulled out a twenty and thrust it at Paul, “I ain’t gonna be up for round three. I got the money. ‘Sides, the Bloodsucker says only a couple months now.”

Paul remembered his chat with Tim earlier, the other man saying he got why Paul liked Daryl. He felt a fresh wave of melancholy and didn’t feel like arguing. He just tucked the twenty in his pocket and headed for the bar, resolving to get something cheap.

When he came back from the bar with the pitcher in one hand and Daryl’s change in the other he saw that their pool table had finally opened up. Daryl had already left the dartboard and was setting up. He’d grabbed Paul’s beer glass along with his own and they were resting on the edge of the table.

“It was my turn at darts,” Paul said, pouring them each another glass.

Daryl snorted, “Figured we’d just call that one since yer losin’ so bad it’s stopped being fun.”

“I was about to make a comeback. Since you forfeited I’m going to count it as a win for me.”

“The fuck you are,” Daryl said mildly, “Don’t you dare put it on that board.”

“I’m putting it on the board. I might even bring it in here to hang behind the bar. Or take an ad out in the paper.”

Daryl finished racking the balls then flipped Paul off. He grabbed his beer and said, “I’ll let you go first, for charity’s sake.”

“Fuck you,” Paul said, grinning a little. Bantering a bit with Daryl made him forget to be melancholy. He grabbed his pool cue and sidled up to the table.

******

Daryl put up a fight but Paul won in the end. “Darts _and_ pool in one night,” he said smugly, “Had enough, Dixon?”

“‘Nuff of your mouth,” Daryl muttered, “I’m going to go out and have a smoke.”

“I’ll come with you,” Paul said.

It was a nice night, warm but not too terrible for early summer. They lounged just outside the bar, chatting and people watching. Downtown Athens on a Saturday evening was crowded even during the summer with most of the students gone.

“Oooh, look at the puppy!” Paul said, gesturing to where a couple was walking a gangly Great Dane puppy that was already enormous.

“You sound like a ten year old girl,” Daryl said.

“Well in this case as in many others ten year old girls have _amazing_ taste, so I choose to take it as a compliment.” As the couple walked by Paul asked if he could pet their dog. After being granted permission he dropped down on his knees and started rubbing the dogs ears and asking him repeatedly if he knew who was a good boy. It rewarded him by licking his face. “Bye, puppy,” he said, getting to his feet. He watched the couple leave and sighed, “I miss having a dog, haven’t had one since I was a kid.”

“Get one,” Daryl said, “I been thinking ‘bout it too, had one a few years back, but one of Merle’s friends kept feeding him fucking Twizzlers and he died.”

“I hope you kicked his ass.”

“Broke his nose,” Daryl said darkly, “shoulda killed him, but Merle stopped me.”

“Sorry, that’s justifiable homicide,” Paul said just as darkly, “Anyways, I’ve thought about getting a dog, but they’re a _commitment,_ you know? I move around too much and not all apartments let you have pets.”

“You been here for two years, plannin’ on moving sometime soon?”

Paul blinked, surprised at the question. He hadn’t thought about moving for a long time, not since before Christmas. It was another disquieting thought, bringing back that feeling of melancholy. He tried playing it off, “Why, would you miss me?”

“Yeah,” Daryl said, then looked embarrassed and kicked at the sidewalk, “You’d have the sense not to feed a dog Twizzlers, more’n I can say ‘bout a lot of my buddies.”

“That’s pretty low bar,” Paul said, grinning a little. Daryl shrugged, taking a drag off his cigarette and blowing smoke out his mouth, studying the people passing by. Paul studied Daryl’s profile out of the corner of his eye, melancholy forgotten again. He felt a flush of warmth for his friend and thought, _I love you._

Paul’s mind froze, stuck on that one crystal clear thought. He stared into the street and breathing became difficult as he tried to push the thought away. Part of him thought that a revelation like that should be signaled with fireworks or a clap of thunder or some kind of fucking warning. Paul was in love with Daryl, he wasn’t sure for how long but he couldn’t keep denying it. It wasn’t just a crush; he’d never been in love before, but he thought it was sort of thing where you knew it when you saw it. 

“Sure yer ok?” Daryl said, interrupting Paul’s inner freakout.

“Yeah, fine,” Paul said, trying to think of something to change the subject, “Wanna go back inside? Try and redeem yourself? Best three outta five.”

“Best two outta three, y’mean, since you didn’t win that dart game. Gimme a sec,” he took a few final puffs from his cigarette before crushing it against his boot. He turned to Paul and said, “Let’s g— fuck's _he_ doing here?” He was staring over Paul’s shoulder.

 _Oh no fucking way,_ Paul thought, turning his head. Because his life was a joke, when Paul turned around he saw Tim McManus arm in arm with a tall blonde woman in the crowds of people moving down Broad Street. Both were laughing and gesturing around them. Paul felt a split second of indecision, wondering if he should get their attention, or tell Daryl that he didn’t want to talk to Tim. Then Tim turned his head an saw him. _Fuck._ Paul gave an awkward wave, turning back to glance at Daryl. The other man was scowling and holding his beer glass so tight his knuckles were white.

“He’s here for a conference,” Paul muttered, feeling obscurely guilty for not telling Daryl earlier. As Tim and his companion approached Paul downed what was left of his beer in two long swallows.

“Paul! Fancy seeing you here. Daryl,” he nodded at them both.

“Fancy seeing _you_ ,” Paul replied, “Who’s your friend?”

Tim made introductions all around— the woman was called Kristin, they’d gone to law school together here in Athens years ago and had met up at the conference, then decided to go on a nostalgic bar crawl. “Kristin, this is Paul, of whom I’ve told you about, and this is Daryl.”

Kristin shook both their hands; she was pretty in an icy Nordic way that straight guys seemed to go nuts over. When she shook Daryl’s hand she lingered and her eyes flashed all over him with obvious interest. So obvious that even Daryl picked up on it, ears turning pink and getting even quieter. Paul felt a stab of something too raw to be called jealousy. Of course she was looking at him, Daryl cleaned up nice. _Distractingly_ so. That night he was wearing a simple Guns N’ Roses t-shirt over faded jeans. Both fit him well, drawing attention to his broad shoulders, strong arms, and narrow waist. He still had a rough, biker look to him but Paul thought it added to his overall appeal.

“We’re just about to go back inside,” Paul blurted out, then, “You can join us if you want.” Daryl shot him a look that Paul couldn’t read.

“We’d love to,” Kristin said.

“Be delighted,” Tim added, eying Paul up and down. Fuck, what streak of masochism made Paul ask that? It _was_ definitely masochism; he had the way Kristin’s eyes had crawled over Daryl’s body burned into his brain. Paul knew that Daryl had no game to speak of, and if Kristin the lawyer flirted her heart out Daryl wouldn’t know what to do with himself. The four of them could go inside, have a drink, and then part ways.

 _And then what?_ He thought to himself.  A real friend would be a good wingman and not get fucking jealous over something he could never have. Fuck, this was delaying the inevitable. May as well rip the bandaid clean off.

Inside the bar Tim went to get them drinks while Daryl, Paul, and Kristin seated themselves in a booth. Paul waited for Daryl to get in first then made sure to get on the opposite side. Kristin slid in next to Daryl, making him blush and fiddle a bit with the napkin dispenser. There was a brief, awkward silence, so Paul said, “Didn’t think Tim’d be caught dead in a place like this.”

Kristin snorted, “Are you kidding? We lived in places like this in law school. Probably this same bar, now that I think of it. He’s not as much of a pretentious bitch as he makes out. Almost, but not quite.” It was said with a good deal of affection.

Paul felt another stab of pain; he realized he kind of liked Kristin already. It would be easier to hate her.

They were making smalltalk when Tim brought back a bottle of Tequila and four shot glasses. “Come on friends,” he said gleefully, “Lets do this properly.” He poured a shot in all four glasses without waiting for a response. Paul, Tim, and Kristin picked theirs up immediately, and Daryl did after a brief moment of hesitation.

“Clinkies,” Tim said, tapping his glass against each of theirs in turn and tossed it back. Paul did the same, feeling the pleasant burn of tequila. 

Immediately after Kristin and Daryl finished their shots Tim refilled all four glasses.

“Fuck’s sake, Tim. Slow down,” Kristin said, pushing her glass aside. Daryl did the same, muttering something about maybe needing to drive later.

“Paul?” Tim said, wiggling his eyebrows and stretching out Paul’s name to two syllables, _Pa-awl._

Paul glanced at Daryl, who was back to fiddling with the napkin dispenser. He picked up his shot glass, clinked it against Tim’s, then downed it.

“Hell yeah,” Tim said, following him.

Paul wasn’t sure what possessed him to reach across the table and snatch Daryl’s untouched shot then down it as well. Probably all the beer he’d already drank and the two shots he’d just thrown back.

After that his memory of the evening deteriorated into a fractured kaleidoscope of moments. Staring at Daryl’s back as he bent over the pool table, shirt tight over his broad shoulders. Kristin leaning in to chat, giving a flirty half smile. Doing more shots with Tim. Daryl challenging Tim to a game of darts. Paul playing pool, Tim sliding a hand over his hip as he walked by. Tim dragging him into a men’s room stall and pinning him, tongues and teeth and hands under his shirt. A conversation with Daryl, “What’s wrong? She likes you, I can tell.”

“Girl like that ain’t interested in a guy like me.”

“She’s doing the arm on boob…thing. Go for it, you don’t hafta…get married, just have some fun.”

“You want to take the Bloodsucker back to yours you can say, I can drive back.”

“No, no, no, nooooo,” Paul said. He remembered at that point burying his face in Daryl’s shoulder and feeling the other man stiffen, “No drunking, too much to drive…he’s got…got hotel…stay at my place, I’ll give you the key…no driving, I’d…I _worry._ ”

Paul remembered Tim whispering in his ear, sliding an arm around him, guiding him out of the bar, Paul slurring at him to wait, he needed to find Daryl and give him his keys. He remembered throwing Tim’s arm off when the other man kept tugging him, weaving on his feet as he went back inside to look for Daryl, had he already left?

Another arm around him, guiding him outside. The air was cool and the world was spinning. “Gonna…need to lay down a sec,” Paul mumbled, sinking down to the sidewalk.

“Goddamnit Paul, get up,” Daryl’s voice snarled above him.

“Nah, I’m good. Jus’…jus gonna rest,” he slurred out. On some level he knew this was disgusting but didn’t care. Being horizontal was worth whatevergerms he was rolling around in.

More voices, “Hey man, is your friend alright?” followed Daryl’s irritated response.

Cold water splashed in his face. Paul sputtered and recoiled.

“Get up and drink this, you little shit.” Paul was propped up, and there was a glass of water at his lips that he gulped down. “Fuck…dunno…I think I need to go home…”

“Called a cab already,” Daryl said in a terse voice.

Paul pulled his head up so that he could look at his friend. “Are you angry at me?” Paul was pretty sure Daryl was angry at him, even if he was way too drunk to trust his observations.

“No,” Daryl said angrily, with an angry expression on his face.

“I’m sorry,” Paul said. Some small part of him drowned beneath all the tequila recognized he was making an ass out of himself, and had been all evening.

Daryl didn’t answer, just raised the water glass to Paul’s lips again.

Paul’s next memory was in the back of a cab, resting his head against Daryl’s shoulder. He could feel his friend’s tension but it was too much effort to move. He half expected Daryl to elbow him off.

“I’m sorry,” Paul repeated, “I’m jus’…jus’… jus’ need to get laid, is all.” If anything the tension in Daryl’s body increased, “Sorry,” Paul said, “you don’t like gay stuff…me…my gay stuff…”

“Told you I don’t care ‘bout that,” Daryl said each word sharply.

“I just…been awhile is all. Harder to…don’t really want anyone. Tim’s…I already gave him a ‘thank you’ fuck at New Years…”

“Shut up. Good lord, you’re a sloppy fucking drunk.”

Paul couldn’t remember if he shut up or not. He did remember Daryl’s arm around him, warm and strong, steering him into the bedroom. He remembered snickering bitterly, this would be the only time Daryl dragged him into bed.

“Wait, lemme…my shoes…” Paul said a few feet from the bed, and started to kick off his shoes. Even using Daryl for balance wasn’t enough; he lost his footing completely and Daryl had to wrap both arms around him to keep him on his feet.

This close to Daryl and Paul could smell him—leather, cigarettes, and Daryl smell. It was nice. That scary thought he first had earlier that evening came to him, _I love you._ He kissed Daryl’s shoulder, then turned his head just slightly.

Daryl’s lips were inches from his own, and in his drunken state kissing him on the mouth seemed like a good idea. So he did just that. A quick peck, the sort of thing that could be written off as a joke. Something to laugh off. It made Daryl jump a little, like a startled cat. But he didn’t pull away; and when Paul looked him in the face he didn’t look disgusted. So he did it again, lips lingering just a little bit longer and when he pulled back he stayed much closer. And Daryl…Daryl wasn’t pulling away. Daryl wasn’t moving at all, Daryl was just standing their trembling, breath coming out in staccato rasps.

 _What the fuck are you doing,_ came a small voice in the back of Paul’s mind that he was drunk enough to ignore. He moved forward, shifting their positions just enough so instead of leaning against his side they were pressed front to front, and slung his other arm around Daryl’s neck. He kissed Daryl a third time, open-mouthed. Ran his tongue over the seam of his lips. Daryl opened his mouth and drew in a sharp breath, while at the same time one of his hands slid down to Paul’s waist, shaking a little.

Paul whimpered and clutched him tight, getting on this tiptoes to kiss him, really kiss him, wet and drunk and sloppy but thorough, tongue sliding into the other man’s mouth. Daryl’s arms wrapped around him, the other man mouthing back awkwardly, noses bumping together. Paul took Daryl’s face in his hands and tilted it to the side, pressing forward. After that it was electricity, pure electricity from every place their bodies were connected.

It ended suddenly, Paul was shoved away, hard. He tripped over his shoes and hit the floor with a thud. “Ow,” he said, almost laughing.

“Fuck,” Daryl said, voice shaking, “I’m sorry.” Gentle hands were on him, helping him up, helping him flop into bed.

“ _I’m_ sorry _,”_ Paul said, “Sorry, sorry…shouldn’t have…fuck, don’t…it didn’t mean anything…”

“I know,” Daryl’s voice was still shaking, “Sleep it off.”

Paul was well on his way to doing just that, his eyes wouldn’t stay open. The room was spinning. “We’re…we’re still friends, right?” said, “I don’t…”

“Sleep it off,” Daryl repeated.

******

It was three in the afternoon when Paul woke up. He had a headache that made him want to die and the taste of tequila in his mouth made him want to throw up. He wanted to throw up then die even more when he started remembering the previous evening.

“Oh _fuck,”_ Paul said. He’d kissed Daryl. “Fuck, shit, fuck, fuckity fuck _fuck,”_ he said, grabbing his pillow and holding it against his face. He curled his hand into a first and punching himself through the pillow. He tried to tell himself it would be ok, he could just tell Daryl he’d been drunk or that he couldn’t even remember. Daryl had come a long way since last year and his “don’t make a pass at me” speech, surely he could shake the whole thing off.

“ _Fuck!”_ Paul shouted. He was such a fucking cliche; he’d fallen in love with his straight friend, couldn’t keep it in his pants around his straight friend so made a pass at him, kissed him with _tongues_.

Before he could castigate himself further his cell phone rang. Finding it buried in the sheets wasn’t easy, especially with the throbbing behind his eyes. _Please be Daryl,_ he thought to himself. He finally was able to snag his phone, when he looked at the screen he groaned. It was Tim McManus. Paul considered letting it go to voice mail, but in the end decided to take the call.

“Mmmuuhyh,” Paul groaned.

“You sound about as bad as I feel,” Tim replied.

“Tequila is evil.”

“It really is,” Tim paused, then said, “I was calling to say sorry for last night. I don’t know what you remember—“

Paul pinched the bridge of his nose, thinking of Daryl shoving him away, “I remember enough. No worries, Tim. I’m sorry too.”

“Thank god my favorite client was there to stop me from doing something stupid. Will you tell him that for me, and that I’m sorry?”

Paul frowned; that bit was a blur. He didn’t remember Tim being an asshole to Daryl in particular but it wouldn’t surprise him. “I will,” Paul said glumly, “Soon as he feels like talking to me, which might be awhile,” he debated telling Tim the next bit, it was a bit awkward, but he needed to tell _someone_. “I kinda kissed him last night. Well, not kinda. Think the face-hugger in _Alien.”_

“Just kissed him? Shouldn’t be a problem. You were wasted.”

“I mean, I’ve _been_ wanting to kiss him, but most of the time I can control that. I don’t want to ruin our friendship, and besides he’s straight—“

There was a beat of silence, then Tim burst out laughing. It was a good reminder of everything he didn’t like about Tim, and he was relieved all over again that Daryl had been there to stop Paul from fucking him again.

“I’m sorry for laughing, Paulie,” Tim said when he’d gotten control of himself. Paul hated being called “Paulie” and Tim knew it. He wasn’t finished talking, “But this could only happen to you, Mr. Paul ‘I leave a trail of broken hearts behind me wherever I go’ Rovia.” He sounded good humored, with only a hint of bitterness.

Paul thought of their ill-advised drunken hookup months ago with guilt, then anger. Tim had been the one to come onto _him_ after Paul said he didn’t want anything. B esides which the idea that anyone, much less Paul Rovia, could break Tim McManus’ heart was laughable, “Oh, fuck off. I’m not like that, I’m always honest about what I want from guys, I was honest with _you—“_

 _“Devastatingly_ honest,” Tim said, with that flash of bitterness again, “You’re right though, I did it to myself. Listen Paulie, much as it pains me to do, I’m going to give you a couple freebies. Because it’s not your fault you’re emotionally stunted and there’s a block of ice where your heart should be.”

“That’s more than you, isn’t a ceremonial heart removal part of the law school graduation ceremony? Or just the soul-“

“Here are your freebies,” Tim continued, ignoring Paul’s words, “Number one: That guy is _not_ straight. Number two, that guy likes _you_ in particular. He might not be aware of either fact, mind you.”

Paul opened his mouth to say something, and closed it. On the other end of the line Tim asked if Paul was still there. He shook himself and said, “No, you’re wrong. He’s straight, he’s had girlfriends before.” As soon as he said it he realized how stupid he sounded.

“Not everyone’s a gold star gay like you, Paulie,” Tim answered, making Paul feel even stupider.

The other thing was Daryl _hadn’t_ had girlfriends before. He’d mentioned sleeping with women in the past, but no actual relationships. The guy was nearly forty, and had _never_ had a girlfriend as far as Paul could tell. They’d been friends for a year and Paul didn’t even think Daryl had been on a _date_ in that time period. Daryl almost never discussed relationships or sex at all. The same could be said for Paul, he could count on one hand the number of times he’d discussed that sort of thing with Daryl. At first because it made Daryl uncomfortable, and in the past several months because there was really nothing to talk about. It hadn’t really hit Paul before that such a huge subject was never really discussed between them, they talked about _everything,_ from trivial bullshit like sports to deep stuff about their families and outlook on life. Still, how the hell could Tim know and Paul didn’t?

When asked, Tim said, “How do I know? I wondered the very first time you introduced us, and knew for sure last night. Kristin was all over him and he kept staring at you; you should see the way he looks at you when you’re not paying attention. And I think last night when he said you weren’t coming with me was the closest I’ve come to death in my thirty-seven years on this earth, and I’ve driven across the entire state of Arkansas before.”

An hour later Paul was slumped over his kitchen table nursing coffee and starting to feel vaguely human. He’d tried calling Daryl several times and gotten no answer; which distressed and relieved him at the same time. He couldn’t get Tim’s words out of his mind. Some small part of him wanted to argue, wanted to say Tim was wrong, if Daryl wasn’t straight and if Daryl liked _him_ then why did he shove Paul away after the kiss? Why had he never said anything? He knew Paul was gay and he didn’t care. But it was a weak argument and Paul knew it. Daryl was in the closet, that much was obvious if after a year of friendship he’d never mentioned liking men. Hell, the guy might be so far in the closet he didn’t even _know_ he was in there. Paul knew how  Daryl grew up, he knew what his relationship with his father and brother were like. He could easily imagine any expression of Daryl’s queerness was met with physical or emotional brutality from both those men.

A disquieting thought came to him: Maybe he never realized Daryl was gay because he never _wanted_ to realize it. If Daryl was straight he was a friend, a _best_ friend, but a friend all the same. If Daryl was straight then Paul could be in love with him and it wouldn’t matter, since he’d never have to make any actual choices about their relationship.

Choices. Paul had stayed in Athens longer than he meant to, the temporary job had turned into a permanent one, his lease would be up soon and he had been planning on re-signing. He’d been here nearly two years, the longest he’d lived anywhere since he was a kid. He had an apartment with furniture and _things_. A thousand small anchors holding him in place. A thousand small anchors, and one enormous one named Daryl Dixon. If Daryl _did_ love him back then Paul didn’t think he’d ever be able to leave him. Fuck, fuck, fucking _fuck._ What the hell had he done? How had he let it happen? The best option would be to leave, and soon. Sell all his shit, turn in his notice, and get the hell out of Dodge. Even if it was a pittance having a regular paycheck for two years enabled him to save up a bit of money. More than enough to buy a plane ticket to somewhere far away and live off for a few months while he looked for a job.

He glanced over at his dry-erase board hanging on the refrigerator. _May 23, Paul Rovia defeats Daryl Dixon ONCE AGAIN, for his longest streak ever (5 game days! Suck it!)_

Fuck. It was too late to make a run for it.

**********

When Paul reached their street he needed to stop for a few moments to collect himself. The street sign was knocked over, but it wasn’t as though he needed it. Paul could have found his way home blindfolded at that point. He walked that route almost every night for over two years with Lou and Daryl. Sometimes the two men chatted about their day, but most times they were quiet, content to just be together. Neither man was big on public displays of affection; but some nights when it was dark enough it was as good as being alone Daryl reached out and took Paul’s hand for a few minutes as they walked.

Those memories made him want to gun it, make the little dirt bike go as fast as it could. Instead Paul took a deep breath and forced himself to go slowly. He observed everything; the houses looming still and dark over him. Nothing moving on their street, living or dead. When Paul passed the Miltons’ house he saw it was trashed; the windows smashed and the front yard littered with broken furniture. _Rev 20:11_ was spray painted in giant letters on the side of the house. The Jeffords’ house looked like the kitchen had caught fire, one side of the house was blackened ash. Neighbor Dan’s place looked mostly alright but the front door was wide open and banging against the side of the house.

Then Paul reached his own house, the house he’d spent two and a half happy years with Daryl, where he’d _planned_ on spending many more. He saw that in the street leading up to the house were several rotting corpses, he had to weave around them on his bike. He pulled into the driveway, seeing that the garage door was open less than a foot, wedged open by two more rotting bodies. Swarms of flies buzzed around them. There were even more bodies scattered over his front lawn, maybe as many as a dozen.

Sticking out of most of them were feathered crossbow bolts.

Paul dismounted the bike slowly. He forced himself to get moving, walked to the nearest corpse. There was an arrow buried in its empty eye socket. Paul leaned down, gripped it by the shaft, and yanked it free. He studied it for a few minutes even though he’d already recognized it. Paul himself had bought the set the arrow came from for Daryl’s last birthday. He held it loosely in his hand and kept moving. Another corpse, this one looked like a shotgun blast had gotten it. Warring emotions hit Paul. Triumph and pride, because of _course_ Daryl had taken out an entire pack of these things. Unease, because Daryl hadn’t retrieved any of his arrows. _It doesn’t mean anything,_ Paul thought, heart pulsing, _He probably had to make a run for it, didn’t have time._

Paul had just finished that thought when he practically tripped over Daryl’s bow itself. He had been so focused on the bodies he had missed it in the overgrown grass of the lawn. He stared at the bow for a long time, the world suddenly feeling distant and far away. He reached down to pick it up and saw his hands were shaking a little. When he pulled the bow from the grass he saw there was still an arrow in the quiver. After a beat Paul dropped the bow back to the ground. He lifted his eyes and scanned the rest of the house. Everything else looked in order.

When Paul reached the front door he found it locked. He didn’t have his key, it was still somewhere back at quarantine. Probably had been tossed in an incinerator along with the rest of his possessions. The locked door posed no great obstacle, he’d picked it before when he’d forgotten his keys. It drove Daryl insane, once Paul did it when the other man was inside the house. _Ever try knockin’? I coulda blown your head off._

After a few minutes with a bit of scrap wire Paul was pushing the door open. He stared at the inside of the house, dim and shadowy. Before he stepped in he took the pistol out of his pocket and held it to his side, at the ready. The soldiers had given him extra ammunition but he had only a few rounds left and hoped to hell there were no roamers inside. He didn’t allow himself to acknowledge the fact that if there was a roamer inside their locked house then it had probably once been Daryl.

************

There had been no magic moment when Paul first saw the house that made him realize that it would be the one. He and Daryl had looked at half a dozen by then and both were overwhelmed and off balance by the process. Daryl had spent his most of his life in one place, living in the shitty little shack he’d inherited from his father for the past twenty years or so. During that same amount of time Paul hadn’t lived anywhere for longer than three years, and that was when Paul actually _had_ a place to live the wasn’t the floor of Union Station or a park bench.

Paul had actually considered bolting months prior when Daryl nervously brought up the idea of moving to Athens and them sharing a place. It terrified him. What stopped Paul from seriously considering running was knowing just how scared Daryl was himself. They were in bed during that conversation, Paul curled up against Daryl’s side with his face pressed into the other man’s chest. Paul could feel Daryl’s heart race beneath his cheek as he stumbled over the words, and also feel his held breath in the silence after while he waited for a response.

Daryl asked so quietly Paul could have ignored it, they both could have pretended that he was already asleep. That tension mounted inside Paul, the warning bells he’d carried around for twenty years. Old hurts that he couldn’t shake. _Don’t get used to this. Don’t settle down, don’t get to a place where you can’t run if you need to. Don’t put down roots, because when you have to dig them up and move on it’s going to hurt so much worse._

He thought about his dog he’d had when he was a kid. The social worker told him that Paul couldn’t take Boo with him. Paul had cried for hours, he’d _begged,_ Boo was just a little dog, Paul would take care of him, he’d _been_ taking care of him. Fed him and took him on walks and cleaned up his poo and threw it in the trash, Boo was his _best friend_. The social worker had made sympathetic noises and assured him that Boo would go to a good home. Paul never did find out one way or another what had happened to him, whether the social worker made good on her promise or whether Paul’s little mutt had ended up in a dog pound alone, unable to understand where all his people had gone off too.

That was the last time Paul could remember crying, but strangely enough he felt close to tears in the dark listening to Daryl’s heartbeat and replaying the man’s fumbling words. “Ok,” Paul breathed out, barely audible, “Let’s do it.”

Daryl was silent for a few minutes longer, “You mean that?” His voice was soaked in disbelief.

“Yeah. Makes sense. I like having you around.”

Later, he would find out that the main reason Daryl picked the house was the size of the yard. “Hoping we could get a dog someday,” he explained shyly, ears turning pink, “Since you’ll be stickin’ round for more’n a few years.”

*************

“Daryl?” Paul called out as he moved through the living room. He couldn’t help himself even if he knew the other man wasn’t there. No one was there, the house was quiet and still. Everything was covered with dust, and Paul sneezed twice in rapid succession. His eyes swept the room; it was much the same as he’d left it weeks ago. His eyes stopped at the couch, on one of the cushions was a familiar framed photograph. Paul walked over to take a closer look, picking it up carefully. It was a picture of Paul himself, Daryl had taken it during their trip down to Florida for their first anniversary. It normally lived in their bedroom on top of the dresser right next to Paul’s favorite picture of Daryl.

Paul laid it back down on the couch. Looking down he noticed something wedged between the couch cushions. He reached down and felt cool metal, and when he pulled it out saw it was the Glock. He checked the magazine—the gun was fully loaded. He swapped the stolen pistol for it, putting the former back in his pocket. The grip on the Glock felt more comfortable in his hands, and he was hit with the memory of going to the shooting range for the first time. At one point Daryl pressed up against his back put his arms around him, laying his hands over Paul’s own to straighten his stance. _You’re distracting,_ Paul had said. Daryl had responded by nuzzling his neck and saying you still had to be able to shoot if you were distracted.

Shaking those memories off, Paul pressed on through the living room and into the kitchen. Unlike the living room it was a complete wreck. The floor was littered with empty bottles of what looked like all the alcohol in the house. Everything from Daryl’s rotgut whiskey to Paul’s bottles of Chianti. He picked his way through the mess, accidentally kicking an empty beer bottle. There was dry and crusted vomit in the sink surrounded by buzzing flies.

 _Daryl what the fuck,_ Paul thought, shaking a little.

 _Look at everything,_ Daryl had said to him the first time they went on a hunt together, in the very early days of their relationship. Paul never did take to hunting but he liked being outside with Daryl, liked watching him in his element. Paul was also fascinated by the mysterious art of tracking that seemed to come naturally to his boyfriend. B eing able to make sense of streaks of mud and bent leaves. _Gotta see_ everything. He then patiently pointed out every single bit of the trail, explaining it in detail.

 _You’re like the redneck Sherlock Holmes,_ Paul blurted out, not even bothering trying to hide how impressed he was. But in those early days Daryl was so shy and unsure of himself, Paul’s words caused him to flush and his eyes to slant sideways at him, checking to see if he was being made fun of. Paul hurried to reassure him that he was being serious and that it wasn’t only impressive, it was _sexy._ That just flustered Daryl even more.

Paul’s own picture and the Glock downstairs on the couch. Empty bottles and vomit. Daryl’s bow left behind. It was forming a picture in Paul’s mind, one he had no interest in looking at. He could still see it, though. Daryl had been informed about the crash, those assholes hadn’t told him Paul was still alive, then he’d gone on a fucking _epic_ bender. Then what? Heard something? Paul jerked his head up, looking around at the rest of the kitchen. The door to the garage had a kitchen chair wedged under the knob. Paul remembered the bodies crushed beneath the garage door. Had they tried getting into the garage, only for Daryl to smash the door down on them? 

Paul carefully removed the chair and opened the door to the garage. The wedged open door to the outside let in some light but it was still gloomy and difficult to see. Paul hesitated, then went to fetch the flashlight from the drawer under the microwave. The light had aluminum casing and considerable heft, enough so that it could double as a club in an emergency. He clicked it on, the light bright and strong, then with the gun in his other hand stepped into the garage.

The truck was still there, and as Paul cautiously slid around it he found that the cargo bed was full of stuff. He shined the flashlight over it, seeing canned food, dried dog food, several cases of bottled water, and camping supplies. He shined the light the other way, pointing it at the two corpses. One had an arrow through its eye, the other one’s head had been bashed in. Paul slid past them both, heading for the rack where Daryl kept his hunting shit. The crossbow was gone of course, but the rifles were there.

_Look at everything._

The half-formed picture came to Paul again. Daryl getting the news, Daryl drowning his sorrows, Daryl running into the garage only to be confronted by the dead. Daryl taking out these two before grabbing his crossbow and running out to deal with the rest. Paul frowned; why was the front door locked? Daryl hardly would have had the time to lock up if he was fighting a horde of the dead. Why had he left the Glock _and_ his rifles behind? This truck full food and water?

The beam of light jittered a little as his hands shook. He turned away from Daryl’s hunting rack, head bowed. After a moment he went to the front of the truck and peered in the cab. He saw three bags on the back bench, including the unmistakable bright orange of Lou’s hiking bag. He groped for the door handle, but before he could open it heard a soft rustling sound coming from underneath the truck.

He sprang back, pointing the gun down at the shadows beneath the truck and waiting. Nothing came out, and he shined the light down. There was that rustling noise again, then a soft whine.

Paul’s heart jerked so hard he couldn’t breathe for a second. In a voice he hardly recognized he croaked out, “Jean Louise? Lou?” There was silence, then another whine, and another. Paul lowered the gun and dropped down to his knees, all caution forgotten in the surge of emotion. He shined the flashlight beneath the truck, saw the flash of Lou’s gleaming eyes. He only got a vague impression of her, dragging herself along toward him, eyes wide and crying out piteously.

Paul let out a harsh gasp and reached blindly under truck, getting down flat on his belly and sliding down, groping out for her. His hands closed around her front legs, she was making a noise he’d never heard her make before, not quite a yelp and not quite a howl. Paul slid back out from under the truck, pulling her out with him as gently as he could.

When Paul left weeks ago she weighed close to fifty pounds, all of it solid muscle — she was big for a female pittie. The dog whimpering on the floor had to have weighed twenty pounds less, she looked like the skeleton of a dog with a bit of skin stretched around it. She tried to get to her feet and fell over, legs moving stiff and unnaturally. She was filthy, caked with dirt and motor oil, her skin a mess of open sores.

Paul didn’t give a fuck how dirty she was, he gathered her up into his arms and hugged her to his chest. She was shaking harder than he was, crying and wiggling closer to him, licking his face and neck and hands. “Hey girl,” Paul choked out, “Hey good dog, hey…who’s a good girl, hey, what a good dog, I missed you, daddy missed you so much…”

***********

He fed her before he did anything else, carrying her into the kitchen and grabbing a can of her wet food. He sat on the kitchen floor, feeding it to her spoonful at a time so she’d be forced to eat slow and not make herself sick. He rubbed her ears at the same time, studying the various sores and cuts on her body, mind running. A strip of fur on her back had been rubbed away, the skin raw. She must have done it to herself sliding repeatedly beneath the garage door. Paul could imagine it— her roaming through the neighborhood looking for food and coming back to curl up under Daryl’s truck. The thought made his throat hot and his chest constrict. When he thought she had enough he put the can of food on the kitchen counter and hugged her to him again.

After sitting like that for a long time he laid her gently on the floor. She whined when he got to his feet, and started full on crying when he walked away. She got to her feet and tried to follow him, ignoring his “No, stay there—“ It did no good, so he picked her up and carried her into the couch in the living room where she could keep an eye him as he swept the downstairs for roamers. She jumped down when he headed for the stairs, trying to follow. Heart racing and eyes hot Paul did the quickest of sweeps of the upstairs, the house was empty, and he ran back to where he left Lou. She’d only made it halfway up the stairs. Paul carried her back to the couch and sat with her for a bit, petting her and talking nonsense to her, telling her over and over again that he wouldn’t leave her.

When she’d calmed a bit he went to work securing the house, picking her up and carrying her with him when he went somewhere that would have been out of her sight. First he covered up the windows, using the heavy tarps left over from when they last painted. After he was finished with that he went into the garage. Clearing the bodies out was difficult, he had to use the blade of a shovel to knock them loose so he could lower the garage door all the way shut. In the truck Paul saw that Daryl had bought several new lanterns, he brought them into the living room for light. Finally he cannibalized the bookshelf in his computer room so he could board the front door shut. Nothing that would stand up to a horde of those things, but enough for him to escape out the back or up the stairs.

It was dark by the time he finished and his stomach was grumbling. Before feeding himself he fed Lou again, still spooning the food out to her carefully. When she was done eating her eyes drifted shut, she looked almost drunk. He went back to the garage, opened the cab of the truck and took out the three bags he’d seen earlier.

He found what he’d expected to find—Daryl had packed the two of them survival bags with food, water, a first aid kit, maps, a change of clothes, and some other miscellaneous gear. Lou’s bag was full of her shit—her collapsable water bowl, her heart worm tablets, her sweater, her goggles that she normally wore when she rode in the sidecar of Paul’s bike. He started to pull out of the truck when he noticed a plastic Walmart bag on the floor of the passenger side. It was full of candy—the kind Paul liked and Daryl said made his mouth taste like he just finished blowing Willy Wonka. Paul swallowed the lump in his throat and took it all back into the house.

**********

Before Paul could eat he needed to get cleaned up. Daryl had three cases of bottled water in the truck but it still felt wasteful to use any of them for bathing. Both Lou and Paul still needed to be cleaned, though. He brought one of the cases of water and Lou to the master bath. He stripped down to his underwear and got to work on Lou first. Bathing her took a long time, he moved slowly as he could and tried to do it with as little water as possible. When she was as clean as he could get her he wrapped her up in a towel and gently lifted her out of the tub. He rubbed her down with a clean towel then put a little Neosporin on her sores, stopping her when she tried to lick it off. It was Paul’s own turn next, he sacrificed several more bottles of water so he could scrub himself down. He’d put the stopper in before bathing Lou, when he was finished the tub was full of dirty water. It would take time but Paul could filter out the grit then boil the water when he wanted to wash up again.

Once Paul was clean he wrapped a towel around his waist and carried Lou into the bedroom. He laid her across the bed, glancing over at the bedroom window and finally noticed that it was partway open. He frowned, wondering if Daryl had gone out that way, and why. He walked over and closed it, staring out over at his dark street. He could see shadows of the roamers shuffling mindlessly, dozens of them. Water from Paul’s damp hair dripped down his spine, making him shiver. He went to the dresser to grab some clothes, eyes falling to the framed photograph of Daryl on the top. Paul took it down and stared at it. He didn’t have many photos of his boyfriend; Daryl did _not_ like having his picture taken. Paul had learned to be sneaky, and he didn’t think Daryl would have let him frame this one if Lou hadn’t been it. Paul had taken it on the Christmas they’d gotten her, their first Christmas living together. It had snowed that year, a light dusting that Paul scoffed at but still shut everything in the city down. The two of them took their new puppy out, she rolled around in the snow until she got too tired, so Daryl zipped her up in his hoodie. Paul took a picture as Lou’s head was hanging out of Daryl’s hoodie, ears perked up and staring at him with her big eyes. Daryl was looking off to the side, hair in his face and hiding beneath his hood. He had a little half smile on his face and was covered in snow flakes. Paul pressed his fingertips to the glass above Daryl’s face, then gently sat the picture back on top of the dresser. He shivered again and started grabbing clothes out of the drawers.

When he was dressed in his flannel pajama bottoms and one of Daryl’s old t-shirts he stared blankly around the bedroom, feeling off balance. He was exhausted and had run out of things that needed to be done immediately; he should eat then try to sleep. He looked at Lou in the king-sized bed, the size of it made her look even smaller and more gaunt. Paul thought about how Daryl always complained when she slept in the bed. _Your damn girlfriend keeps trying to push me off,_ he’d grumble in the morning. He never tried to push her out though. For a brief moment Paul didn’t know if he could make himself lie down in that empty bed, but he took a deep breath and made himself get in.

Paul had brought the survival bags Daryl had packed to the bedroom, he dug around in “his” bag for something to eat, settling on a can of chicken noodle soup. He sat crosslegged on the bed and ate it without bothering to heat it up. When he finished the soup he wolfed down a bag of Sour Patch kids from the supply Daryl had gotten him. After they were all gone he licked the sour sugar off his fingers, relishing the painful way it made his mouth tingle.

Paul leaned back against the headboard, propped up by both his and Daryl’s pillows He knew sleep would be a long time coming, despite his exhaustion thoughts were yelling at him demanding to be heard. _He left his arrows, his bow, his guns, the food—_ Paul shoved them away savagely. He considered looking for a book to read before he remembered his old iPod in the nightstand on his side of the bed. Paul had upgraded to a new full-screen one right before he flew to Chicago and it had been in his carry-on bag when the plane went down. But the old one still had all of his music on it. When he pulled it out of the nightstand it was dead of course, but he _hadn’t_ brought the external battery case to Chicago. He found it after rummaging around a bit more in the nightstand. After a few minutes plugged in the iPod powered on. He slid his thumb over the click wheel, scrolling through his music collection.

“What do you think, girl?” Paul murmured to Lou, who was curled up around his legs. Her ears perked up at the sound of his voice and her tail thumped against the bed. “Huh? Something classic? Ok. Here, Crowded House. Good suggestion.” He clicked play and leaned back against the pillows, closing his eyes and and letting the familiar lyrics wash over him.

“ _There is freedom within, there is freedom without_

_Try to catch the deluge in a paper cup_

_There's a battle ahead, many battles are lost_

_But you'll never see the end of the road_

_While you're traveling with me_ _…_

_“Hey now, hey now, don’t dream it’s over,”_ Paul sang along softly. He felt Lou shift in her spot by his legs, wiggling into his lap and laying her head against his chest. She stared up into his face in that way that dogs did, like you were the most amazing thing they’d ever seen. He draped an arm around her and rubbed her ears.

 _He wouldn’t have left her,_ Paul thought unwillingly. That was the most damning thing out of everything he’d found.  Not the bow, the weapons, or any of the other supplies. If Daryl thought he couldn’t take her with him wherever he was going, to a refugee camp in Atlanta or wherever, _he wouldn’t have left her._ His boyfriend had a tender heart buried under that gruff exterior but not so tender he couldn’t do what needed to be done. Daryl would grab the Glock from the nightstand, pat her on the head and tell her she was such a good girl, then blow her brains out. He wouldblubber like crazy after, but he wouldn’t leave her to fucking starve alone in the house.

_“In the paper today tales of war and of waste_

_But you turn right over to the TV page…”_

A sharp pain pulsed through Paul’s breastbone. It was worse than waking up in the cabin of the airplane and choking on smoke. Lou whined softly in his lap, squeezing closer. Paul felt his eyes burn and he started shaking. Lou wiggled all the way in his lap and Paul felt her wet nose against his neck. He wrapped both arms around her and hugged her to his chest, curling around her and burying his face in her fur.

_“Now I'm walking again, to the beat of a drum_

_And I'm counting the steps to the door of your heart_

_Only shadows ahead, barely clearing the roof_

_Get to know the feeling of liberation and release…”_

Paul’s shoulders shook and he whimpered a little. No tears came; it would have been a relief if some had. Would have at least given him something to do. Instead he just breathed harshly into Lou’s fur, feeling something in his heart grow hard and brittle as a block of ice. _You said you wouldn’t die on me Dixon, you fucking_ promised, a childish part of him thought. It looked the other man had broken a promise for the first time in their four years together( _fuck Daryl, are you happy now, you were right to count from the day we met)._ Of course it had to be the only one that really mattered. 


	11. Daryl: Part VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this took so long, for whatever reason this chapter was tough to write, I couldn't make the ideas work. 
> 
> It would be very boring to recap exactly what happened in canon, so if I don't specifically take the time to write about it just assume that things happened the same way they did on the show.

When Daryl got out of the shower he saw that Glenn was sprawled out on his stomach in the cot Jenner had provided and moaning faintly. A half smile flicked on Daryl’s lips; the kid had gotten pretty hammered at dinner. Daryl had to take some responsibility for that, he’d egged the kid on all evening. Glenn was going to have one hell of a hangover in the morning.

Daryl shivered a little; the room in the CDC was air conditioned and Daryl hunted for a thermostat for only a moment before giving up. That Jenner guy said everything was automatic, run by computers and shit. Daryl would just have to make do with the scratchy army blanket Jenner gave them.

Daryl stretched out on his own cot, the room spinning a little. Despite that feeling he felt he hadn’t gotten drunk anywhere near enough over dinner. His thoughts were a little fuzzy but still too clear. In his cot on the other side of the room Glenn moaned again, and Daryl shut his eyes, trying not to _think._ Hard not to.

Hard not to think about how Paul liked the temperature in their bedroom to be somewhere between “Arctic” and “your average meat locker.” On top of that the little fucker stole the covers in the middle of the night while _also_ clinging to Daryl like a monkey. He’d wake up slick with sweat except for an arm or a leg that was sticking out from underneath his boyfriend’s body.

 _Fuck._ He didn’t want to think about Paul. Or Merle. He felt a flash of irrational resentment at Rick Grimes for bringing them to a quiet and safe place where there was nothing to distract him, and another at the thought of him curled up in the next room with his wife and kid.

 _You’re not being fair,_ a voice that sounded a lot like Paul’s whispered in his mind. No, he wasn’t being fair, but fuck it. He was allowed to feel resentful that Rick’s family was alive and his own wasn’t. It was a step up from wanting to kill the man, at least. He’d come close a few times, and was still thinking it over right up until the other man led them all to the CDC. Rick Grimes probably didn’t realize _how_ close.

******

Feeling truly murderous was something Daryl Dixon was unfortunately familiar with. He’d felt that way twice before in his life — not so riled up in a fight that he might lose control, but on the verge of making a deliberate decision. First had been when he was a kid and his Daddy started wailing on his Mama and Daryl thought he wouldn’t stop. Daryl ran to grab Merle’s .22 and his hands closed around it; listening to his mother cry out. He hesitated just long enough for his daddy to finish up then storm out of the house. Daryl heard engine of his pickup truck start, heard him pull away. Even long after that Daryl stood frozen holding the gun and shaking until his Mama came to find him, her face a mess of bruises. She saw him and lunged for the gun, jerked it out of his hands, then slapped him across the face. _Don’t you never even_ think _of it,_ she screamed into her son’s weeping face.

Second time had been Merle a few weeks ago when his brother wouldn’t shut up about things he had no right to speak of at all. Now there was number three on his list: Rick Grimes just standing there and calmly admitting to chaining Merle up like a fucking animal and leaving him to die. Daryl didn’t even try to stop himself from pulling out his knife and if Shane the Dick hadn’t put him a chokehold then Daryl would have cut the motherfucker’s throat.

He was still considering on the ride to Atlanta, sitting in the back of the van and listening to Grimes talk to Glenn and T-Dog. The three men had accompanied him because they felt guilty and said they wanted to make things right. But Daryl knew they mainly wanted the bag of guns Rick fucking Grimes had dropped in the city. So long as they helped him find Merle first he didn’t give two shits.

Daryl’s anger cooled just a bit listening to Grimes talk about Lori and Carl, realizing that this was good ol’ Shane’s “brother”, or whatever the fuck he was. The two of them looked nothing alike. Daryl viciously wondered how Grimes would react if Daryl casually informed him that Shane had been putting wood to his old lady for weeks.But the guy spoke with such simple relief and gratitude that he found his family that a lump formed in Daryl’s throat and he kept his mouth shut. Rick Grimes sounded decent enough.

That feeling of forgiveness vanished when they go to the store where they’d abandoned Merle, raced up the stairs to the roof, and Daryl found Merle’s bloody, severed hand still in the cuff. It was all too much; as he clutched his hair and howled with grief it was though at the same time he could hear a recorded voice say _there were no survivors_ and Merle’s voice say _biters got your dog._

That murderous rage took him over again, and Grimes ended up pulling a gun on him while Daryl raged in frustration. Daryl was only able to get a hold of himself after looking around and realizing there was a trail to follow. Before he left he wrapped up Merle’s hand and tucked it into Glenn’s backpack. He couldn’t say why exactly, just that the thought of leaving that bit of Merle out to rot in the sun made him feel sick. He remembered the Delta guy going over the procedures for identifying any remains they found and felt even sicker.

Once it was done Daryl was able to focus, to follow the trail of blood spatter to a kitchen stove with a strip of charred skin still on the burner and a broken window. Merle must have gone out that way, he couldn’t have been expecting a rescue.

When Daryl announced his intention to go after him Rick _fucking_ Grimes got into his face and tried to stop him. “Listen, I know how you feel,” Grimes said, “He’s family. I went through hell to get to mine, I get it.”

“You ain’t got no _idea_ how I feel,” Daryl growled. He wanted to scream into Rick Grimes’ face that his wife and kid were still _alive_ , that he got hold them and protect them. That even if she was porking Shane the Dick his wife wasn’t dead because of his own cowardice. Daryl hadn’t even been able to protect his fucking _dog._ He wanted to tell Grimes that he _knew_ Merle was an asshole but that didn’t _matter,_ what _mattered_ was that Merle came back for him. From what the three men had said it sounded like Merle had been high on something; meth or coke was Daryl’s best guess. Whichever one it was Daryl had dealt with Merle in that state before, and if he’d been there would have been able to control his brother. That knowledge _choked_ him; yet another person he loved was dead because Daryl was a fucking chickenshit. Because Daryl had run away from something he was afraid of instead of facing it like a goddamned man.

“Ok, maybe I don’t,” Grimes said after a pause, “But if we’re going to find your brother we have to be smart about it. Now, if we get those guns we’ll have a better shot of finding him and getting out of here. Do you think you can do that? Be cool?”

Almost against his will Daryl found his anger at Rick fading again. The other man hadn’t tried to argue with Daryl that he did in fact know how he felt, just tried to reason with him. And hell, he was the first person who even _tried_ to understand why Daryl was upset. He swallowed the last of his anger and growled, “I can do that.”

Getting the guns proved to be difficult, what with them being surrounded by half the walkers in the city. It was the kid, Glenn, who came up with the idea on how to get them. Despite his anger and worry over Merle Daryl couldn’t help but take a moment to be impressed. He hadn’t talked much to Glenn before that moment. The kid had a soft, baby face that made him look very young, and Daryl had filed him away next to Amy in the same mental folder that contained Paul’s students. Daryl really looked the kid for the first time; he thought Glenn might be almost or as old as Paul. As old as Paul _was_.

“What’d you do before all this?” Daryl asked him.

“Delivered pizzas. Why?” Glenn replied, and Daryl mentally put him back in with the students.

The kid’s plan was a good one, but he hadn’t thought of what to do if while trying for the guns they got jumped by some gangbangers, one of them got kidnapped and they had to spend hours tracking him down. So long that when they got back to the van they found it gone. Daryl realized it had probably been Merle who took it, and his brother was probably heading back to the camp to deal out some vengeance. Angry as he was at the people who left his brother to die he didn’t want a vengeful Merle loose on a camp full of women and little kids. 

As they ran back to camp Daryl found himself praying to a god he never really believed in even _before_ the world ended. _Please,_ he mentally begged, _please let him be ok. Please let me get there in time to talk some sense into him before he gets killed, or kills someone else._

Merle wasn’t there when they got back to camp. Something even worse had happened—the entire place was overrun by the dead. If Rick, Glenn, T-Dog, and Daryl hadn’t arrived at that moment the entire camp would have been lost. As it was over a dozen people were killed; including Carol’s husband and Amy.

The next morning as they buried their dead Daryl almost yelled at the entire camp that you reap what you sow, and they’d left his brother to die on a roof. That this was fucking _karma._ But he just had to look at Andrea leaning over and stroking her dead sister’s face to find the self control to keep his mouth shut.

After it was all over Rick gathered everyone who was left together and told them about his plan to go to the CDC. He thought they should all stick together, everyone who was left. Daryl took stock of the survivors — Glenn, Andrea, Carol and her daughter, Rick’s family, Dale, T-Dog, and the Morales family. Daryl hadn’t made friends with any of them even if he no longer felt like murdering Rick. He couldn’t decide what to do at first; feeling adrift. It wasn’t unlike how he felt years ago after Merle’s sentencing and Daryl realized he’d be on his own for the next five years at least.

 _It was only a year, though,_ Daryl thought, _I had Paul after that. And we never would have met if I was still following Merle around._

Daryl ended up staying with the group and going on to the CDC, and while it wasn’t quite what they were hoping for, no doctors hard at work on a cure (except for Jenner who seemed completely fucking nuts), at the very least Daryl had gotten a shower and a good meal.

******

 _But not enough to drink,_ he thought grimly to himself in the dark room in the bowels of the CDC. On the other cot Glenn had stopped whimpering and started snoring. Daryl listened to him for a bit, trying to distract himself and contemplating going back to the kitchen for more booze. He had a fractured memory of downing some of Paul’s Chianti during his two day bender, it tasted sour and disgusting. _Maybe not,_ he thought. Probably for the best, Daryl could be a mean drunk and while he’d made his peace with Rick and the others there was no point tempting fate.

He shifted on his cot. Actually, come to think of it, Rick Grimes was number four on his list of almost murders instead of three. Daryl was pretty sure he’d come close to murdering Paul’s bloodsucking ex that night at the Georgia Bar three years ago.

That was the night Paul liked to start counting from when it came to anniversaries, but Daryl’s memory of the night was an ugly one and he preferred the day they first met. Or when they had their first _real_ kiss a few weeks after that one drunken fumble. Paul got huffy and insisted that it _had_ been a real kiss, he’d been wasted but he meant it. In fact the _reason_ he was wasted was _because_ he’d just realized how much he wanted to kiss Daryl.

Daryl, however, didn’t give a fuck. It wasn’t just that Paul had been blind drunk, it was because of how Daryl himself had reacted. Looking back on years later on the events that lead to that kiss and Daryl would marvel at how he was able to lie to himself about what it all meant. Some part of him knew, of course. Some part of him had always known; Paul was hardly the first guy that Daryl had gotten… _fixated_ on before. In the past there had been guys that he couldn’t stop thinking about, whose very presence made his heart race and taste adrenaline in his mouth. Paul hadn’t been the first, but he’d been the strongest. He worked his way inside Daryl’s mind and heart when Daryl was too weak from his injuries and the drugs to resist. By the time Daryl no longer had those excuses it was too late.

*************

There’d been a guy before Paul. Just once, and Daryl never even knew his name. Daryl had buried that particular encounter deep in the dark recesses of his mind for years and never acknowledged it while he was awake.

It happened on a typical Saturday night when Daryl was twenty-two years old. Twenty years after the fact and he could remember it down to the smallest detail. Daryl was sitting on a barstool at Willie’s, the roadside tavern just outside of Sedalia. He was alone because Merle took off not long before; gone home with some woman who had bottle-blonde hair and a braying donkey’s laugh. She had a friend—or maybe it was a sister— with identical hair but a quieter laugh. Before leaving Merle tried to persuade Daryl to go out and have some fun of his own.

“Get ‘er to drive you home, little brother,” Merle said into Daryl’s ear. His breath stankof beer and stale cigarettes.

“I dunno,” Daryl muttered. His cheeks were warm and he couldn’t look Merle in the eye, instead he kept his gaze focused on his bottle of Coors. As Merle talked Daryl worried the corner of the label until it started peeling off into strips.

“It’s gonna fall off if you don’t use it,” Merle said, loud enough to be heard several tables over.

Daryl didn’t answer, just peeled off another strip of the label from his bottle. When Merle talked like that Daryl felt sick and panicky. He knew there was something wrong with him; he’d had sex before and wasn’t impressed. It was a lot of mess and humiliation with little to show for it. Nothing he couldn’t get from his own hand, at least. Sometimes he wondered if the whole thing was one big inside joke everyone knew about but him.

Merle shook his head in exasperation, “Pussy. I’ll be back tomorrow morning, you find your balls just leave a sock on the door if she’s still in your room.”

Thankfully the woman lost interest in Daryl not long after her friend left with Merle. She left Daryl for the dance floor, and was soon grinding up against some other guy. Daryl didn’t care; in fact he enjoyed being alone. He enjoyed just sitting, drinking, and occasionally shooting the shit with the bartender. He didn’t get to do it often; he spent most of his time drifting along after Merle, who never shut up or gave Daryl a moment to listen to his own thoughts.

Daryl was using the mirror over the bar to people watch when the guy with the scorpion tattoo came inside. Daryl’s attention was drawn to him immediately and without conscious thought. The guy wasn’t local; which wasn’t unusual back in those days when Willie’s got a few new folks every night, truckers and other ramblers. This guy wasn’t local and he was definitely new, Daryl would have remembered him. He was the kinda guy that was hard to forget— well over six feet and built like a fucking tank. The long hair that touched his shoulders was glossy black as was his thick beard. He wore a tight shirt that displayed his muscular arms, one which had a sleeve tattoo of blood-red roses winding around it. When he set down a few bar stools away Daryl saw that there was a black scorpion coiled among the rose petals on his bicep. The guy ordered a beer, then turned to scan the room. Daryl was staring at the guy without realizing he was doing it and when their eyes met it was like swallowing lightning. The guy wasn’t just built, he was strikingly handsome with a strong nose and sharp cheekbones. His eyes were very dark, almost black, and looking into them made Daryl break out into a sweat.

Then the stranger fucking _smiled_ at Daryl before lifting up his beer in a silent toast. Daryl didn’t know how to react, and settled for scowling then turning his attention back to his own drink. He could still _feel_ the guy’s eyes on him. It made him shiver despite feeling too hot at the same time.

Daryl risked a glance out of the corner of his eye to see if the stranger was still looking at him or if he was just being paranoid. The stranger wasn’t; he was staring placidly ahead and sipping at his own beer. Daryl looked away again, stomach rolling and sweat trickling down the small of his back. After several long moments of internal struggle he turned his head slightly to give the guy a longer look. This time he saw that the guy with the scorpion tattoo was looking back at him, and their eyes met for a second time. He lifted a single black eyebrow and one corner of his mouth curled up.

Daryl didn’t know what to do, part of him wanted to get in the guy’s face and ask what the hell he was looking at but he couldn’t make himself move. Daryl stayed at Willie’s for another hour, eyes meeting the guy with the scorpion tattoo’s every so often and each time feeling that shivery heat. Each time it was stronger than the last, and Daryl couldn’t take it anymore. He grit his teeth and _forced_ himself to get up and walk away, eyes down on the floor and definitely _not_ looking the guy’s way.

Daryl didn’t stop walking until he’d gone through the doors and was in the middle of the parking lot. He was dizzy and out of breath and still sweating despite his thin shirt and the cool night air. He pulled out a battered pack of Morley’s from his pocket, shook out a cigarette, and lit it with trembling hands. He stood there in the parking lot smoking until he felt like he had himself under control then started walking. Merle had taken the truck when he left with his bar floozy so Daryl had to walk the four miles back to their house.

He had only been walking ten minutes or so when headlights shone from behind him, casting his shadow long across the highway. He moved as far off the road as possible, not wanting to get clipped by some drunk asshole. The headlights belonged to a white Chevy truck that slowed down as it passed Daryl, coming to a full stop on the road a few yards ahead of him. As Daryl approached he saw it had Tennessee plates, and he wasn’t surprised when he reached the the truck and saw the driver was the guy with the scorpion tattoo.

“Evening friend,” he said to Daryl.

“You fuckin’ following me?” Daryl spat out.

The guy wasn’t put off by Daryl’s rudeness, instead let out a warm chuckle, “No; this is a happy accident. Something happen to your car?”

Daryl knew he should tell the guy to mind his own fucking business but answered, “My brother took it.”

“Gotta long walk?”

“‘Bout four miles,” Daryl said.

“I can give you a lift part of the way,” the guy replied.

Daryl didn’t answer at first, his heart was racing and breathing was difficult. It made him angry, he was unarmed but for a pocket knife but he wasn’t scared of this asshole no matter how big he was. There was no reason for the faint trembling in his knees. He climbed into the passenger seat of the truck as much to prove it to himself as anything else.

They didn’t talk, just drove. Daryl’s heart hadn’t slowed down at all, it had sped up. They hadn’t been driving long when the guy put his hand on Daryl’s knee, making him jump. The guy shot Daryl a questioning look, and Daryl knew what he should do. Ask the guy what the fuck, say he weren’t no queer, tell him to pull over and let Daryl out if he didn’t want his ass kicked. Daryl did none of that, instead he relaxed against his seat and closed his eyes. His throat was dry and he felt dizzy. The guy started stroking Daryl’s inner thigh from his knee up to his crotch, brushing his swelling dick with the back of his hand. Daryl found himself parting his legs reflexively. The hand squeezed his dick through the denim of his jeans and Daryl made a little choking noise.

Without warning that teasing hand was gone, and Daryl let out a little noise in protest before realizing it was just so that the guy could pull over to the side of the road and turn the engine off.

Daryl kept his eyes closed. He felt the guy shift in the seat beside him, palm pressed to Daryl’s dick. There was the purr of Daryl’s zipper, and cool air hit him when the guy took his swollen dick out. Then the guy’s mouth was on him blindingly fast. Daryl’s eyes flew open and a strangled noise came out of his throat. He looked down at his lap, craning his neck back and staring into the shadows, in the dim moonlight he could see the guy’s lips wrapped around his dick. It was incredible, a revelation, some of the women he’d had sex with gave head but it had been nothing like this. He thought he was going to fucking _die,_ maybe he already had and this was heaven. Or, more likely, hell. Surely something that felt that good couldn’t exist in his ordinary waking life.

When Daryl spent himself the guy swallowed it down with a pleased moan, and stayed leaned over with Daryl’s softening dick in his mouth. Finally he let out a huff of air and sat up. He stared at Daryl, a question on his face. Daryl was too blissed out to say anything, his mind was nothing but pleasant white static. Despite his lack of response the guy must have sensed something. He pulled Daryl’s shirt up then ran a hand down his chest, fingers pinching at his nipples. As Daryl watched the guy took his own dick out with his free hand and started jerking himself off. After a minute or so of this Daryl reached out and wrapped his hand around the other man’s dick, stunned by his own daring. The guy with the scorpion tattoo squeezed his eyes shut and groaned. His dick pulsed and then semen was spilling out over Daryl’s fist. 

The guy slumped back against his seat, panting. He opened his eyes and studied Daryl for several long heartbeats. Finally he shifted back behind the wheel and tucked his dick back inside his pants, zipping up his flies and buckling his belt. When he was done he tugged a handkerchief from one pocket and handed it wordlessly to Daryl. All Daryl could do was stare at first, his mind was still floating far away. The guy saw and smiled a little, then wiped the sticky mess of come off Daryl’s fingers himself. By the time he was finished Daryl had come back to himself enough to start fixing his own clothes.

They didn’t say anything to each other. The guy started the engine and pulled back onto the road, and a few moments later Daryl grunted, “This my street. I can walk from here.” The guy nodded, let Daryl out, and drove off. Daryl never saw him again.

The next few months were awful. Daryl tried not to think about or acknowledge to himself what had happened _._ But it was impossible, aside from his dreams felt like he had it tattooed on his forehead, like any day Merle would corner him and hiss that he knew. That everyone knew. The following weekend they were back at Willie’s and Daryl couldn’t relax, kept looking at the other bar patrons. Imagining one of them pointing a finger at him and screaming out what he had done. There was a sign behind the bar at Willie’s—two stick men fucking doggie style with an angry red slash through them and AIDS IS GOD’S CURE FOR HOMOS written above it. He felt nauseous looking at it, determined _not_ to wonder about _that_.

Which he couldn’t do no matter how hard he tried; it ate away at his mind for weeks, making sleep impossible. It didn’t go away until he broke down one day while Merle was out and drove to the nearest clinic several towns over, the one Merle always went to whenever he got the clap. They told him they would call with the results, which could take up to three weeks. It was the longest three weeks of his life up to that point; he was just as afraid of Merle being the one to get the phone when the call came as he was at any possible results _._

After that he came to an unconscious decision: _It wasn’t worth it._ Those few moments of pleasure weren’t worth the long hours, days, and _weeks_ of anguish after. He stomped the memory down his brain the same way he would crush an empty beer can. He went out with a few women, not often, but often enough. If a guy made his heart race and feel shivery Daryl would pick a fight with him. Sixteen years passed and Daryl didn’t think about it anymore, he convinced himself he’d forgotten it.

******

Daryl found out that he hadn’t forgotten it in the slightest the day Paul drove him home from the hospital. He knew he should have been happy to get out of that place, that every day spent there was another couple thousand dollars, but he wasn’t. Paul was the reason why; Daryl hadn’t had a friend of his own in decades. All his friends were Merle’s friends. None close enough to lift a finger when Daryl got laid up, none of them that he would have _wanted_ to lift a finger. Paul was different, since Daryl had gotten hurt the guy had gone above and beyond for him. He was a helluva nice guy, and he was _cool_ on top of that. It sounded stupid to put it that way but Daryl couldn’t think of a better word for it. _Cool._ He might look like some spoiled college brat but he was anything but. In some ways his life sounded tougher than Daryl’s own had been. Except for his most recent calamity at his lowest points Daryl still had Merle, Paul just had himself. Daryl admired that about him.

The bar was pretty low but Paul’s visits to his hospital room were the high points of his week, the only thing that made his stay tolerable. They watched movies on Paul’s little portable DVD player, played card games, and just talked. Paul had been all over the country and Daryl loved listening to his stories of “Roadside Oddities”. Fossilized dinosaur tracks on an Indian reservation in Arizona. The oldest American wax museum in Saint Augustine. The Winchester mystery house in California. Countless others.

Ricky Lee’s taxidermy wasn’t quite as spectacular, but Daryl thought Paul would like it and he wasn’t wrong. Paul had been _delighted_ ; turned to Daryl with a grin that lit up his entire face and made his odd-colored eyes sparkle. _Blue or green,_ Daryl thought, settling on green the way he usually did.

Daryl was feeling good until Paul brought up the insurance money, how the lawyer was working out. Daryl knew he should be grateful but he couldn’t help it, he fucking hated that smug prick. Paul may have called Daryl a Roadside Curiosity as a joke but he could tell that McManus asshole honestly thought of him that way.

“Ah, Tim’s not a bad guy,” Paul said, “I mean, by normal person standards he is, but for a lawyer he’s alright."

“Just don’t like that mouthy little queer is all,” Daryl muttered. He hated that Paul liked that prick.

It was like the temperature in the car dropped twenty degrees. When Daryl looked at Paul’s profile he saw his mouth was pressed into a tight line and his nostrils were flared. _Fuck._ Paul might not be a spoiled college brat but he was certainly more _politically correct_ than the people Daryl was used to interacting with. He fidgeted in his seat, why couldn’t he have just called the bloodsucker an asshole or prick or _something?_ Even if the guy was _definitely_ a queer, Daryl didn’t know how he knew that but he did. A memory wanted to be heard in Daryl’s mind, of riding next to a stranger down a highway much like the one he was currently on. “Sorry. I know he’s your friend an’ all,” Daryl said, hoping Paul wasn’t too pissed at him.

“He’s not really a friend, he’s a fuckbuddy. And he’s doing you a pretty big favor just because I asked him to.”

Those words were like a bat to Daryl’s face when he realized what Paul was telling him. Any hope he had of not thinking about that long ago encounter was shattered in an instant. In a split second Daryl remembered _everything_. The wet feel of the guy’s mouth moving up and down his dick, how warm the guy’s come had been when it spilled out into his hand, hot as the blood from a fresh kill when Daryl went hunting.

“You mean you’re—“ he started to stammer out, eyes glued to his friend’s face. Although they looked nothing alike when Daryl stared at him it made him think of the way that tattoo of the scorpion and roses had rippled when the stranger flexed his arm. Remembering the way he’d smiled at him when their eyes first met.

“A mouthy little queer? Yeah,” Paul interrupted. His eyes were angry and defiant and Daryl had to look away out the window, trying to control his growing panic.

“Didn’t know,” Daryl mumbled out, his voice sounding far away in his own ears, “No offense.” He could have left it at that, but as soon as he said it Daryl’s mind flooded with half-formed images: Paul putting a hand on his knee, Daryl unzipping the other man’s fly and pulling his dick out, bending over himself and taking Paul into his mouth. “Just…just don’t make a pass at me is all. I ain’t gay.”

“Even if you were greasy rednecks aren’t my type,” Paul snapped, each fucking syllable making Daryl feel like he was being punched in the stomach. “I can control myself, believe me,” was the last thing Paul said about it.

It should have ended when Paul dropped Daryl off at his house. Hell, it should have ended well _before_ then. Daryl should have recognized what was happening, Paul wasn’t the first guy he’d gotten… _fixated_ before. Daryl should have realized it wasn’t the drugs that made him feel excited when Paul came to visit.

But as the days passed Daryl found himself too weak to tramp down memories of Paul’s visits and how much he had _enjoyed_ them. _Greasy rednecks aren’t his type,_ Daryl told himself when he made cautious contact with Paul again.

When they started hanging out regularly Daryl was able to trick himself into not noticing what was happening. Paul rarely mentioned or did anything that reminded Daryl that he was gay; never talked about boyfriends or dates or anything like that. Daryl was just as relieved that he himself didn’t need to try and talk about women. He hadn’t had sex since well before Merle’s arrest and it was nice to talk to someone and not have to make excuses.

They did guy shit together—beer, pool, football games. Paul even expressed interest in going hunting or fishing sometime; he’d never done the former but he loved the latter. Daryl would later think the mental tricks he played on himself were like a cliche heist movie he saw once, the thief crawling through a maze of lasers and not able to touch one without setting off the alarm.

Then Paul kissed him, and all that went out the fucking window.

******

The day that changed everything started out on another typical Saturday, in the afternoon this time. At noon Daryl called Paul to let the other man know he’d be in Athens around six or so, depending on how long Merle wanted to jaw at him. As usual the shame of lying pricked his neck but Daryl ignored it. The truth was Daryl didn’t visit Merle half the time he came down to Athens, his trips were solely for the few hours he got to spend with Paul. Or overnight when he was feeling brave.

That day when he hung up on Paul he was disquieted; the other man had sounded little down about something. He filed the observation away, he’d try and find out what that was about later. He got into the shower, grabbing a bar of soap and scrubbing himself down before sudsing his hair up with the Head & Shoulders knockoff he’d picked up at the Dollar General. When he got out of the shower he dithered over what to wear for a few minutes, staring at the pile of clothes on his bed and nervously tapping his fingers against his leg. He’d done laundry the night before, hauling a bag over to Ruby Sawyer’s place in town. She was one of Merle’s old girlfriends, he could do laundry at hers if he was willing to spend a few hours listening to her gossip. His own washer had broken a few months ago and he still hadn’t managed to fix it, he was beginning to suspect the that given the thing was more than twenty years old it was dead for good. He’d have to figure out how to get a new one; last time he’d talked to the Bloodsucker he’d said it would still be a few months before the insurance money came through. Daryl didn’t know if he could keep getting away with doing laundry at Ruby’s; she was starting to sigh and say if she were ten years younger Daryl would be in trouble. He’d been on the lookout in the classifieds for a used one, but hadn’t seen any for less than a hundred dollars. It may as well have been a million.

He’d healed up enough to work ages ago, but work came in dribs and drabs. In addition to one-off repairs he was able to get a few shifts a week at the Citgo outside of town making minimum wage. He made enough to keep his lights and phone on, buy cigarettes, and make his trips down to Athens. The last one ate up the majority of his money. It was an eighty mile round trip, the car Merle’s buddy lent him the previous fall was a gas guzzler, and that summer gas was more than three bucks a gallon; it could cost Daryl fifty to fill up the tank. Aside from gas there were the _incidentals,_ stuff like deodorant and aftershave and shampoo instead of just using the lather from a bar of soap. Stuff he didn’t fuck with normally. All that was before he even got to Athens, if they went out for beers a pitcher and a bit of food to go with it was another twenty on top of everything else.

He’d have a bit more spending money if he cut his trips back, but the thought never entered his mind. It was pathetic, but those times spent with Paul weren’t just the high point of his week, they were the high point of the past couple of years, maybe even his entire life up until then. Not that there was much competition. Daryl never had a friend he could relax around and just… _be._

When Daryl arrived at Paul’s apartment at exactly 6:05 his earlier intuition that something was wrong became a certainty. Paul was subdued when he answered the door, eyes distant. This mood lasted the entire evening, he was quiet and withdrawn as they played a game of darts. Daryl normally beat him at this particular game but Paul always put up a fight and got riled up when he was losing. Tonight he didn’t seem to care, drinking most of their first pitcher and not even waiting five minutes before getting another when it was finished. They played a game of pool next, and Paul livened up just a bit. He still wasn’t himself, and you’d have to know him well to see that underneath all the jokes and banter Paul was _deeply_ unhappy about something.

Daryl watched Paul bend over the pool table, biting his lip in concentration and pool cue sliding over his long fingers. Daryl turned away, mouth dry. His mind unwillingly went back to a few weeks before Christmas, Paul having a bit too much to drink. Remembering when Paul blurted out he went to Key West the previous Christmas where he got drunk and fucked so many guys he lost count. The sadness and hurt on Paul’s face when he talked about it was burned into Daryl’s brain. So was the conversation later that night when Daryl found out the real reason Paul tried to forget himself with alcohol and sex.

Daryl was still thinking about it when he went outside for a smoke and Paul followed him. They stood people watching for a bit, shooting the shit and enjoying the night air. At one point a couple passed by walking a Great Dane puppy that was still massive, and Paul regressed before Daryl’s eyes into a ten-year-old, getting down on his knees and cooing at it. Daryl watched him with a little smile, warm affection bubbling away in his chest.

“I miss having a dog,” Paul said as the couple walked away, “haven’t had one since I was a kid.”

Daryl didn’t know why the thought of Paul with a dog caused more of that warm affection to bubble up, “Get one. I been thinking ‘bout it too.” Daryl hadn’t had a dog in five years, since Merle’s dumbass friend fed Rocky, Daryl’s battered old mutt, Twizzlers until he died. When Daryl told Paul about that incident the other man agreed that Daryl shoulda killed him.

“Anyways,” Paul said, “I’ve thought about getting a dog, but they’re a _commitment,_ you know? I move around too much and not all apartments let you have pets.”

That warm affection in Daryl’s chest deflated. He knew that already about Paul, that the other man had bounced around all over the damn country, moving on every few years, and the only place he came back to was Chicago. Daryl wondered for the first time if Paul was planning to move on from Athens, and when. Thinking about it made his chest tightened, and he forced himself to be casual when he asked if Paul planned on moving any time soon.

“Why, would you miss me?”

“Yeah,” Daryl said, so quickly he embarrassed himself. It was the truth, though. The thought of Paul not being in his life hurt with a sharpness he wasn’t prepared for. He tried to play it off with a joke, which seemed to work. Paul grinned and it made Daryl’s chest feel tight again, so he looked deliberately out at the street, feeling Paul’s eyes on him.

When Daryl looked back at him he saw that Paul was watching the street, face blank and hard. Daryl realized that despite his brief bit of cheerfulness Paul was still upset about something. “Sure yer ok?” Daryl asked him finally.

“Yeah, fine,” Paul said unconvincingly, then asked if Daryl wanted to go back inside for another game.

Daryl hesitated before agreeing. If Paul wanted to talk about it he would, Daryl would just be patient and try his best to cheer him up. He crushed his cigarette against his boot before turning to Paul to say he was ready, words trailing off when he recognized one of the people moving down Broad Street. “Fuck’s _he_ doing here?” Daryl blurted out. It was the goddamned Bloodsucker, Paul’s lawyer friend. The prick was strolling down the street with an icy-looking blonde on one arm, both of them laughing like a couple of assholes about something.

 _He’s not really a friend, he’s a fuckbuddy,_ Daryl thought to himself, the back of his neck getting hot.

Paul turned around and when he spotted the Bloodsucker he got visibly flustered; hesitating before waving him over. He muttered to Daryl that the lawyer was in Athens for a conference and didn’t meet his eyes. Daryl had a few seconds to wonder why Paul hadn’t told him about that before. As the Bloodsucker approached Paul gulped down what was left of his beer and Daryl had a nasty suspicion that _this_ was why Paul was so out of sorts tonight. A suspicion that grew stronger when Paul invited the other man and his icy friend in to join them for drinks.

Since becoming the prick’s _client_ Daryl had met with the Bloodsucker a handful of times, and Paul hadn’t been present at any of those meetings. The one and only time Daryl witnessed Paul interact with his( _fuckbuddy)_ ex or whatever had been at the hospital. Daryl had been drugged and in pain and it the lawyer was on his best behavior. It was different on a Saturday night when everyone was several drinks into the evening _before_ doing shot after shot.

It got worse as the evening wore on. It became _impossible_ for Daryl to forget that Paul was gay, since the Bloodsucker spent most of the night feeling him up in a way he probably thought was subtle. They _both_ probably thought they were being subtle when they tried to get Daryl to talk with the Bloodsucker’s icy blonde lady friend. It made Daryl think uncomfortably of how Merle would always shove him at women when they went out, pressure him into doing something. Into being a _man._ Daryl felt sick and panicky until she left.

“It was nice meeting you, Daryl,” she said with a look he couldn’t read, then, “Tim’s got a heart of gold buried under all the asshole, but I’d keep an eye him tonight. He makes the dumbest decisions about that guy.” As she spoke she tilted her head over to where Paul and his douchebag lawyer buddy were playing darts.

Daryl had no idea what exactly she meant by that, just nodded and mumbled something about it being nice to meet her too. She gave him a knowing little smile then left.

“Kristin left?” the Bloodsucker said when Daryl joined him and Paul by the dartboard.

Daryl gave a kurt nod, and looked over at his friend. Paul was sprawled out on a chair, head lolling back and eyes shut.

“Want to play darts? I just beat Paulie a minute ago but he couldn’t even hit the board. Wasn’t very satisfying. He said you were good.”

“Fuck _you,_ McManus,” Paul slurred out from his chair, “Kick his ass, Daryl.”

Daryl didn’t want to play darts with that asshole, he wanted to get in his car and drive home. He was about to open his mouth and say so when McManus interrupted with, “Go take another shot, Paulie,” in an annoying sing-song voice, “Those were the terms of the wager.”

Paul grumbled and pushed himself out of his chair then staggered toward the bar. “Kick his ass, Daryl!” he called over his shoulder.

“How ‘bout it?” the Bloodsucker said with a grin. His teeth were all a little too shiny and white, “I gotta warn you, I’ve one my local bar’s charity tournament three years in a row. I have been drinking, so you might have a shot.”

Daryl wanted to break all those shiny white teeth. Instead he gave a nod and grabbed a set of darts. “You can go first,” Daryl said, “We doin’ five-oh-one or three-oh-one?”

“Five,” the Bloodsucker said with another grin, then stepped behind the line. Held his darts up and threw, hitting a double twenty on his second toss, and again on his third. “Eighty points to me,” he said, like Daryl couldn’t do basic fucking math. “Your turn, Mr. Dixon."

Daryl glared at him, lined up his shot, and threw all three in rapid succession. Double twenty, triple twenty, and triple again. “Hundred and sixty,” Daryl grunted.

“Holy fuck, Paulie wasn’t lying when he said you were good,” The Bloodsucker said with an impressed whistle. Daryl shrugged, the back of his neck heating up. He didn’t want to just beat the Bloodsucker, he wanted to _humiliate_ him.

McManus wrote the score on the scoreboard next to the dartboard then sidled up for his turn, “Paul said you two were hanging out a bit. Surprised me.” As he spoke he threw one dart after another. Double twenty, twenty, and triple twenty. “Hundred and twenty to me.”

“Why’s that?” Daryl replied. He glanced back at the bar, where Paul was waiting patiently to get the bartender’s attention. He turned his attention back to the game, throwing his darts at the board and hitting triple twenty each throw. He didn’t bother to call out the score.

“Oh, you know,” McManus said, voice slurring a little, “He doesn’t have many straight friends. He did tell you he was gay, right?” He threw his darts, each one hitting the board with a _thunk._ Twenty, twenty, double twenty.

“Yeah, he said you and ‘im was dating,” Daryl muttered, anger making his pulse pound in his temples. His hand was steady when he made his throw. One, triple twenty, triple twenty again.

“‘Dating’?” McManus laughed, eying the scoreboard before taking his turn, “Not Paul Rovia. He doesn’t _date,”_ he sounded bitter, “Which is a shame. He’s a special guy. Plus he fucks like a wild animal.” _Thunk,_ double twenty, _thunk_ sixteen, _thunk_ triple twenty.

“Oh,” Daryl said, voice even. He _willed_ his right hand to be steady, even though his left was twitching against his thigh. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple. With a calm he didn’t feel he threw one dart after another. Ten, ten, double twenty.

“Good game!” McManus crowed in delight, “Wanna go again?”

“Nah,” Daryl said. He needed a cigarette before he he punched the asshole in face. He made his way toward the door just as Paul was coming back, his cheeks were flush and his eyes glassy. He didn’t seem to notice Daryl had left.

Daryl smoked one cigarette after another, hands shaking. He should leave. Drive back home. Paul had clearly decided how he wanted to deal with whatever was bothering him, and it didn’t involve Daryl.

Daryl blew smoke from his mouth, remembering earlier that evening Paul suggesting that he try and go home with McManus’ icy blonde friend. When Daryl said he’d just drive back to Sedalia if Paul wanted to take the Bloodsucker home the other man got upset and repeatedly insisted that Daryl not drive. Paul went as far as burying his face in Daryl’s shoulder, his skin was hot through Daryl’s t-shirt.

 _Fuck it._ He’d had plenty to drink that evening but still felt stone cold sober. He went back inside and made a beeline for the men’s room, he was going to take a piss then walk back to Paul’s apartment where he’d parked.

When he was finished he scanned the bar, he couldn’t see Paul or the Bloodsucker anywhere. It was late and the Georgia Bar was getting crowded, even an uncool bar during summer session got packed with students on a Saturday night. Daryl’s fingers beat nervously against his leg as he wondered if Paul had just gone off already without saying anything.

Before Daryl could think about it too much Paul was staggering in from outside, swaying on his feet as he scanned the crowd. His eyes lit on Daryl and he made his way over, stumbling a little over his feet. When he reached Daryl he pulled his keys out of his pocket, eventually dropping them without noticing when he tried to hand them to Daryl

“Sleep at my place, don’, don’ wantcha driving…” His words were slurring and he could barely stay on his feet. That’s when Daryl really _looked_ at him. Paul was fucking wasted, Daryl had _never_ seen him like that.

And Paul still looked unhappy underneath all of it.

 _“_ I’ll take the keys, but yer coming with me,” Daryl said, bending down to retrieve Paul’s keys off the floor. When he straightened up he grabbed Paul by the upper arm and guided him toward the door, saying, “C’mon, you drunk asshole.”

When they got outside Daryl saw the Bloodsucker smoking a cigarette and staring dreamily at the street. When he noticed them he grinned, “Pa-awl,” and drawled out, sounding like King Douchebag of Asshole Mountain, “Ready to go?”

“Yeah, to his apartment,” Daryl answered for him, Paul’s head was lolling against Daryl’s shoulder and he seemed to not have heard.

“Gonna…need to lay down a sec,” Paul mumbled in Daryl’s ear. He slid to the ground so suddenly Daryl wasn’t able to hold him up. Curled up on the sidewalk and flung an arm over his face.

“Goddamnit Paul, get up,” Daryl snapped, tugging at his arm.

“Nah, I’m good. Jus’…jus gonna rest.”

McManus laughed and said, “My hotel’s only a few blocks away, Paulie. Am I going to have to drag your sorry ass there?”

Daryl shot the other man a look, he was swaying a little on his feet and while clearly drunk he was nowhere near Paul’s level. Daryl felt himself go cold and still, overflowing with an icy rage he hadn’t felt since he was a kid crying in his room, hating his father and thinking about shooting him. Unbidden the words _he fucks like a wild animal_ rang in Daryl’s ears.

In that moment Daryl didn’t give a fuck that he was depending on this asshole for his legal needs. Didn’t care about anything other than the fact that if the Bloodsucker tried to argue with him further then Daryl wouldn’t just hurt him, he would _kill_ him, right here in the middle of the street. He stalked forward and crowded up into McManus’ face. The guy went white and stumbled a step back but Daryl grabbed him by the shirt front, jerked him close, and snarled, “Get the fuck outta here and go sober up. Now.”

Daryl shoved the other man away so hard he almost tripped over his own feet. When he caught his balance McManus blinked drunkenly at Daryl’s face, eyes wide. Hammered as he was he still didn’t miss thethreat in Daryl’s voice. He looked down at where Paul was curled up on the sidewalk, shook his head, and said, “Yeah, ok. You’re right. Tell him I’ll give him a call tomorrow.”

“Fuck you.”

McManus opened his mouth like he was going to say something else but shook his head and started slowly down the street. Daryl watched him with narrowed eyes, hands curling and uncurling into fists. When the Bloodsucker was out of sight Daryl knelt down by Paul’s side and shook him by the shoulder, swearing under his breath.

“Hey man, is your friend alright?”

Daryl looked up, there was a gaggle of college kids just coming out of the Georgia Bar, and they’d noticed Paul on the sidewalk.

“He’s fine, ‘cept for the asskicking I’m gonna give ‘im tomorrow when he’s sober,” Daryl spat.

“You sure you don’t need help?”

Daryl swallowed his temper, “Actually, could one of you guys get him a glass of water?”

One of the kids ran in to do as Daryl asked, and another offered to use his cell to call a cab. Daryl nodded distractedly, glaring down at his friend sprawled out on the ground.

A few minutes later, cab called, water fetched, college kids sent on their way, Daryl was trying to get Paul to drink a bit. Too little too fucking late, but it was all he could think of doing while they waited. Paul slurped down some water, half of it spilled out his mouth and soaked his beard. He mumbled something about needing to go home. _No shit you need to go home,_ Daryl thought. All he said aloud was that a cab had been called.

Paul’s eyes cracked open. Daryl was hit with the memory of how they first met, of thinking that his eyes were the color of sea glass. “Are you angry at me?” Paul asked.

“No,” Daryl said, not untruthfully. In fact he was angrier than he’d been in years, so angry he was _shaking,_ but it wasn’t directed Paul’s way _._ Unbidden, the Bloodsucker’s words came back to him again: _he fucks like a wild animal._

“I’m sorry,” Paul said, his sea glass eyes wide and pleading.

Daryl didn’t think he could respond without opening some kind of floodgate within himself, so he just forced some more water down Paul’s throat.

When the cab finally got there Daryl had to take a second to get over a flash of self-consciousness, he’d never taken a cab before in his entire life. He mentally slapped himself and dragged Paul’s drunk ass into the backseat and gave the driver the address.

The trip to Paul’s apartment only lasted a few minutes. During the ride Paul slumped against Daryl’s shoulder, drunkenly rambling out apologies. Every muscle in Daryl’s body went tense, he could feel the heat of Paul’s body against his side and the other man’s hair was tickling his cheek.

“I’m sorry,” Paul slurred into Daryl’s shoulder, his breath hot, “I’m jus’…jus’… jus’ need to get laid, is all.”

 _He fucks like a wild animal._ Daryl stared straight ahead with clenched fists.

“Sorry,” Paul mumbled, “you don’t like gay stuff…me…my gay stuff…”

“Told you I don’t care ‘bout that,” Daryl said, trying to hold himself still. One of Paul’s limp hands was pressed against Daryl’s thigh.

“I just…been awhile is all. Harder to…don’t really want anyone. Tim’s…I already gave him a ‘thank you’ fuck at New Years…”

Daryl could have lived the rest of his life without knowing that, so he just told Paul to shut the fuck up.

When they got to the apartment Daryl flipped through his wallet and dug out the cash he had left, cursing. He wasn’t sure he had enough, he’d bought a bottle of beer with his change from the last pitcher. He was about to go through Paul’s pockets when he noticed that there was a twenty folded up in the bottom.

“Paul, you fucking _asshole_ ,” Daryl snarled, ignoring the driver’s look. Paul had a habit of surreptitiously giving Daryl back any money he offered to pay for drinks or food. It was maddening, and Paul always played dumb about it.

After he got his change from the driver Daryl half dragged, half carried Paul to the apartment. _Thank fuck he lives on the ground floor,_ Daryl thought to himself.

Daryl had _almost_ gotten Paul into bed without any mishaps when the other man froze and muttered, “Wait, lemme…my shoes…” and before Daryl could stop him started to kick said shoes off. Predictably enough he ended up losing his footing and almost falling over. He _would_ have fallen over if Daryl hadn’t grabbed him, using both arms to hold him up. Paul’s face was buried in Daryl’s shoulder, like it had been in the car. He heard a gentle smack then realized that Paul had _kissed_ his shoulder.

Daryl froze in place while part of his mind shorted out. His heart was in his throat and a strange mix of anger and fear and…and _whatever_ buried him. He tried to calm himself, torn between warring urges to push Paul away and pull him closer. He remembered that night almost twenty years ago when the guy with the scorpion tattoo put his hand on his knee.

 _He’s drunk, he’s been touchy feely all night,_ Daryl tried frantically to reassure himself.

That was when Paul lifted his head up just enough to kiss him on the mouth. Daryl jumped, like he’d been hit with electricity. It happened so fast his mind could barely process it, a brief press of Paul’s lips. It was still enough that lungs squeezed tight and he couldn’t move or breathe.

Paul pulled away a few inches, studying his face. Daryl couldn’t make his mouth work, couldn’t pull away and didn’t know if he even _wanted_ to. Paul leaned forward and kissed him again. It lasted longer this time, a slow slide against Daryl’s mouth before Paul pulled away. Paul waited a few seconds and Daryl’s mind screamed for him to do something, say something before the other man kissed him again and it was too late.

Paul moved forward a bit, shifting their positions until he was pressed against Daryl’s front from the chest down to the knees. He slung his arm around Daryl’s neck before pressing his open mouth against him. Daryl felt his wet tongue slide over his lips, it made him gasp without thinking an slide a shaking hand down Paul’s waist to his hips.

Paul whimpered and squeezed Daryl tightly to him. Before Daryl realized what was happening they were kissing, really kissing, Paul’s tongue was in his mouth and Daryl was sucking it between his lips and everything was electric, unreal. Daryl had never kissed a guy before; in that long ago encounter the stranger had sucked his dick and felt him up but never kissed him. Up until that moment Daryl would have said he didn’t even like kissing, period.

Now he couldn’t think clearly, not over the roar of _want_ clamoring inside his head. It was beyond ignoring or tramping down, it was wild and made itself _known._ Daryl _wanted_ him, wanted him so bad he felt half crazy with it. Wanted to keep kissing him, wanted to shove him onto the bed and get on top of him, press him into the mattress. Wanted to tear off his clothes and explore every inch of him with his lips and tongue. Daryl’s heart was pounding in his ears.

Paul shifted against him, and out of nowhere the memory of the drive home from the hospital came to him, _Greasy rednecks aren’t my type,_ followed by, _just need to get laid, is all._

It was like being doused with cold water. Daryl pushed Paul away from him, misjudging his own strength and knocking him over without meaning to. The other man hit the ground with a _thunk_ and let out a soft, “Ow.” Another dousing of cold water, this one even worse. Guilt so thick he could hardly stand it Daryl quickly helped Paul to his feet then into bed, telling him over and again in a voice that shook he was sorry.

“ _I’m_ sorry _,”_ Paul said, “Sorry, sorry…shouldn’t have…fuck, don’t…it didn’t mean anything…”

 _I know it didn’t, greasy rednecks aren’t your type,_ Daryl thought and almost laughed. He told Paul to just sleep it off.

“We’re still friends, right?” Paul asked him, eyes fluttering closed, “I don’t…”

“Sleep it off,” Daryl repeated quietly. The command was unnecessary, Paul’s breathing was evening out and his face had gone slack. Daryl stared down at Paul’s parted lips; he had a wide mouth and full lips under the beard. Daryl pressed two shaking fingers to his own lips, they tingling and felt swollen.

Daryl practically ran from the bedroom. When he reached Paul’s living area he couldn’t stay still, pacing one end of the room to the other. On the wall above Paul’s desk Chaz the Chupacabra was staring at him with wide, glassy eyes, mouth hanging open. Daryl felt like it was staring at him in shock, like it couldn’t _believe_ Paul had kissed this greasy redneck. Must have been drunk.

Daryl couldn’t stay there another minute. He scurried out of the apartment, locking up behind him with Paul’s keys before sliding them under the door. He walked quickly out to his car and jumped behind the wheel. He peeled out of his spot so fast the tires squealed and there was the smell of burning rubber.

He drove too fast, he knew he should slow down but couldn’t make himself. He was pretty sure he’d pass a breathalyzer if it came to it; he would take the risk.

He was only a few miles outside of Athens when he had to pull over to the side of the road. He slumped forward, hands gripping the steering wheel and shaking so hard his teeth chattered.

 _This has to stop,_ he thought to himself. Feeling as though it weighed a thousand pounds Daryl raised his head to look up into the rearview mirror. He met his own eyes for only a second before looking away. Who the fuck did he think he’d been kidding? He should have known better.

About ten years before then Daryl tried to quit smoking, more because he was broke than for any health conscious reasons. He found the only think that even vaguely worked was to do it cold turkey. The first week was nothing but misery but Daryl toughed it out. The big, obvious things were easy to fight. What fucked him up was after a month cold turkey he started to feel in control. The initial cravings and physical discomfort had passed, he thought he could just go out to bars and hang out with his friends and not be tempted. His first trip to Willie’s he stared at an astray on the bar like it was a fucking steak, he wanted to _lick_ it clean. He still thought he was in control, still thought he could have just _one_ cigarette and it would be fine. Ten years later and Daryl was chain smoking behind the wheel of his car on the side of the road in the middle of the night.

 _This has to stop,_ he thought again. As much as everything in him cried out against the thought Daryl knew this was the truth. It had to stop; greasy rednecks like Daryl couldn’t be gay the way guys like Paul could. So resolved he started up the car and started driving, at a slower pace than before.


	12. Paul: Part VI

Paul sat in his chair on the back patio with one of Daryl’s rifles in his lap, staring out into the backyard and remembering the night before he left for Chicago. It had been a good evening, Daryl had grilled steak for him and they spent the evening sipping beers and playing with Lou. Paul remembered feeling a bone deep contentment that overrode any lingering disappointment that Daryl wouldn’t be joining him.

_No fireflies tonight,_ Paul thought. He turned his head and stared at the empty chair next to him. Daryl’s ashtray was still underneath it, a few crushed butts visible. Every time Paul looked a sharp pain twisted just below his breastbone, but he couldn’t stop. He and Daryl spent many evenings lounging in these chairs, talking about bullshit or listening to a game on the radio or just sitting and enjoying the quiet.

Lou was curled up at his feet, her head resting on top of his shoe. When they first went outside she tottered over until she found her frisbee but was still too weak to want to play. Instead she carried it over to Paul’s chair and lay with it between her paws. She was dozing now, legs twitching and occasionally whimpering. Whenever she started to get too loud Paul would lean over and pet her until she woke up a bit.

“I’m still here,” he whispered to her after one such instance. Her tail beat against the ground for a few seconds before she dozed off again. She wasn’t asleep for long before she jolted awake, ears raised and nostrils flaring. She stared at one corner of the privacy fence and started growling, what hair she had left on her back standing up. Paul hushed her, straining his own ears. At first he heard nothing, then gradually he heard the faint snarling noise the dead made.

Paul got slowly to his feet, heart thudding in his chest. He went back inside the house as quietly as he could, Lou clinging close to his heels. Once they were inside the house Paul barricaded the door again. He’d boarded up the windows but there were still gaps big enough for him to peer out into the yard. He watched the yard for several long minutes and kept a tight grip on the rifle the entire time. Nothing happened, and he gradually relaxed.

He glanced at Lou, she was flopped on her side on the kitchen floor with her legs stretched out in front of her; Daryl used to call it her “dead dog” sleeping position. Whenever roamers got close to the house she grew agitated, pacing and growling to herself. The ones they’d heard in the yard probably hadn’t noticed them and moved on. Still, Paul didn’t plan on going back outside again any time soon.

Paul wanted to move on from Athens, go to ground somewhere remote but knew he couldn’t just yet. Lou was half dead and needed time to put some weight back on, and he could use some time himself to recover, to sit in one place and do nothing but eat and build his strength back up. There was plenty of food and water for them both, Daryl had bought as much as would fit into the truck. They could hole up in the house for a long time, so long as they were quiet and careful about food.

Besides, he had something he needed to take care of first. Or at least try to. It was an errand he knew he couldn’t put off for very much longer. Every hour in the house reminded him of Daryl, it was like constantly picking off a scab before the wound was fully healed. His second day home he tried taking down and hiding some of the worst reminders— the framed menu from the Sweet Shack Barbecue in their living room, Chaz the Chupacabra in the computer room over his desk, the photo of Daryl and Lou in the snow in their bedroom. There was more, but Paul gave up before too long. Putting those things out of sight didn’t help put them out of mind, their very absence drew Paul’s attention.

_Tomorrow,_ Paul thought to himself, _I’ll do it tomorrow._ He studied Lou on sleeping on the kitchen floor. He couldn’t take him with her on this particular errand, she would just get in the way even if she were’t still so sick and weak. He couldn’t just shut her up in the house, she still cried whenever he left her sight for even a few seconds. She’d draw in half the roamers in the city within the first ten minutes. He meditated on the problem for a bit when he remembered the little blue bottle of sedatives the vet had prescribed years ago. Paul thought he’d seen it recently, maybe the last time he had to hunt through the junk drawer for batteries or a rubber band or something else.

As soon as he finished that thought he went to the junk drawer and started digging through it, hoping Daryl hadn’t thrown them out. He hadn’t; Paul found them after less than five minutes digging through the drawer. A little blue prescription bottle with white label that had JEAN LOUISE DIXON (CANINE) printed underneath the Rx number. Paul took in a sharp breath, feeling the now familiar stab of pain in his chest. Another reason it was pointless to try and hide anything that reminded him of Daryl was because almost every fucking thing in the house did.

Looking at JEAN LOUISE DIXON (CANINE) made Paul remember the exact circumstances this prescription was given. It was the day after they brought Lou home from getting fixed and Daryl forgot to lock the doggie door when he left for work. Surgery wasn’t enough to keep their dopey mutt from running wild through the backyard while they were both at work and she ended up popping her stitches. When Daryl got home from work he said the kitchen looked like a slaughterhouse. He said this to Paul over the phone while at the emergency vet’s office, voice shaking and near tears. Later he would hotly deny that he’d come anywhere _close_ to crying, and that Paul was an asshole for not believing him. Paul found it endearing, Mr. Tough Guy Hunter all worked up over their puppy getting hurt. The vet prescribed sedatives which they ended up not using since Daryl called in sick to stay home with her for the rest of the week.

That incident was Daryl in a nutshell; despite appearances his boyfriend had one of the gentlest hearts of anyone Paul had ever met. Paul always felt lucky that he was one of the few people who got to see that soft side of Daryl, he hid it well and got angry when it was discovered. Like when Paul first said he loved him; Daryl tried to drive Paul away and nearly succeeded.

************

Paul spent two weeks after that drunken and disastrous kiss trying to contact Daryl without success. It was two of the longest weeks of his entire life, the kiss replayed in his mind at all hours of the day, distracting him at work and ruining his sleep. The only things that helped were the climbing wall and punching bags at the gym. He went straight over after work and spent hours climbing or practicing jump kicks until his muscles ached and his mind was too drained to envision the worst.

Paul called Daryl’s house at least once a day during those two weeks, varying the time because he _knew_ Daryl didn’t have caller ID and he would catch him off guard eventually. Each time the phone rang, and rang, and _rang_ while Paul clenched his jaw and tried not to throw his cell against the wall in frustration. Maybe Tim was wrong and Daryl was straight. Maybe Daryl was gay but didn’t appreciate his face being mauled by his drunk best friend without asking. Maybe he was so closeted being kissed just enraged him, and even if Paul got Daryl to agree to the whole dating thing it wouldn’t even work out. Each phone call was a battle against his instincts screaming at him to run.

Paul wished he had someone he could _talk_ to about it but there wasn’t really anyone. He thought of the friends he’d left behind in Chicago with a pang; Paul had vanished off the map when he moved to Athens and never contacted them beyond the odd MySpace comment. He’d probably have just as much luck getting them to answer his calls as he did with Daryl.

When Paul called Daryl on the Saturday two weeks after the kiss and got no answer again he almost admitted defeat. Calling Daryl was pointless; the other man clearly didn’t want to talk. Paul would just have to wait until he did, the Daryl had his number and would call when he was ready. If he ever was ready. Paul started packing a bag for the gym, planning on spending another Saturday kicking something until he was too sore to move. He went to the kitchen to fill up his water bottle and saw the whiteboard hanging on the fridge. It still had Paul’s gloating over their scores at pool and darts, still had Daryl’s crude drawing of a middle finger.

A few minutes later when he got into his car instead of west toward the gym Paul headed north toward Sedalia. Hehad only been to Daryl’s house once before, on the day he drove the other man home from the hospital. Still, he thought he remembered the directions well enough and if not he had the address and a Rand McNally Road Atlas(Paul was aware of the existence of google maps but preferred his own eyes and brain). The early afternoon was humid, thick dark clouds rolled in as he headed further north, and despite the AC on full blast he was sweating. He’d be at Daryl’s house in less than an hour, a fact he was trying not to panic over.

When he reached Daryl’s house he slowed his car. Paul could see a flickery light from the living room window and the gas guzzling Buick Daryl drove was pulled into the short gravel driveway. Paul’s nerves got the better of him, and instead of stopping he kept driving. He drove for a good ten minutes through increasingly desolate back roads before finding a place to pull over and turn around. The second time he passed Daryl’s house he was able to force himself to pull into the driveway. The gravel crunched beneath his tires and in the distance was a flicker of lightning.

It took most of Paul’s courage to get out of the car and approach the front door of Daryl’s shack. He rang the doorbell before he could chicken out, shifting from foot to foot as he waited for a response. A thousand scenarios flashed through his mind. What if Daryl wasn’t here alone, what if he had one of his “buddies” over? Daryl’s car was the only one in front of the house but that didn’t mean anything; if Daryl had a friend over would he be ashamed Paul had come?

He was about to ring the bell again when the door opened and he saw Daryl for the first time in two weeks. He was wearing jeans and a wife beater; Paul’s eyes were drawn irresistibly to his shoulders. Paul forced himself to look at his friend’s face. Daryl didn’t look happy to see him.

“You weren’t answering your phone,” Paul blurted out before Daryl could say anything.

Daryl didn’t reply at first, just stared down at his own bare feet. Finally with the faintest lift of one of his shoulders he said, “Been busy.”

Paul almost asked him with what, but he decided not to waste their time, “Can I come in? I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”

Paul could see the shift in Daryl’s posture as the other man grew even tenser. The fingers on his left hand were tapping out an invisible beat on the air. Finally Daryl nodded, eyes still averted, and walked back into the house leaving the door open behind him.

Paul took a deep breath and followed him inside. The inside of Daryl’s shack was much the same as it had been nearly a year ago. A bit cleaner, no scent of rotting garbage underneath the smell of cigarette smoke. The TV was turned on to a baseball game, the volume low but not quite on mute.

He turned his attention back to Daryl, the other man hadn’t offered him a drink or to sit down or said anything at all. He was just standing stiffly in the living room, eyes staring unseeingly at the game on tv.

Paul decided there was nothing for it but to be direct, “You’ve been avoiding me. Is it because I kissed you?”

Daryl did that finger fidget thing again, glancing sideways at Paul’s face then away, “’S’fine. You were drunk.”

Paul took a deep breath, “Yeah, I was. And I’m sorry,” Fuck, he just needed to take the plunge, “Not that I kissed you, but because I did it without asking first if it was ok.” Daryl flinched but remained silent. His lips tightened into a thin line, and his fingers jittered crazily against his thigh. Paul couldn’t tell what the other man was feeling at all, and felt a little stupid. He’d spent the past two weeks just trying to get Daryl to _talk_ to him but hadn’t spent nearly enough time figuring out what to _say_ when he did. “Daryl? I mean…do you have anything you want to say to me?”

“Nah,” the other man replied.

“Do you…fuck, do you want to punch me or anything like that?”

Daryl just shook his head and said, “You were drunk. Surprised you even remembered it.”

“Of _course_ I remembered,” Paul said quietly, “I’ve _been_ wanting to kiss you. Being drunk just gave me an excuse,” he took a deep breath, “Look, I like…I like being friends with you. But I have a few…not friend-type feelings for you.” Fuck, why couldn’t he just spit it out? It was just three simple words, but all of them got stuck in his throat. “So. If you…if you feel the same, I want to be more-than-friends. If not, then I can get over it,” a fucking lie, but whatever. He finished with, “I still want us to be friends no matter what, though.”

“I thought you said greasy rednecks weren’t your type,” Daryl blurted out, sounding accusing.

“What? When did I say _that_?” He racked his brain, going through their conversations. He remembered calling Daryl a “roadside curiosity” as a joke, but—

“In the car, when I said I wasn’t gay,” Daryl replied, eyes still on the floor. As soon as he said it Paul remembered; and wondered how he could have forgotten. Daryl calling Tim a “mouthy little queer” overshadowed the rest of the conversation in his mind. Daryl hadn’t finished, “You said even if I was greasy rednecks weren’t your type.” There was anger in his voice, and hurt, and Paul felt the flicker of hope in his chest turn into a wild blaze.

“I’m sorry I said that,” Paul said quickly, “I didn’t mean it, I was just upset about what _you_ said.” Paul gathered himself, feeling like he was getting ready to jump off a cliff, “I just really liked you, and wanted to be your friend. And you said what you said, and I thought you wouldn’t feel the same if you knew I was gay. But you _did._ I’m just…look, I think I love you, ok? I’ve _never_ felt like this before, and if you feel even a _little_ bit the same way, then—“

“I don’t,” Daryl interrupted, finally meeting Paul’s eyes with his own, “I told you. I _ain’t_ gay.” He spoke with a toneless finality that made Paul’s mind come to a screeching halt. Daryl’s eyes were hard and he’d gone very still.

Looking him was too much, so Paul dropped his eyes that time. When he did he noticed that Daryl wasn’t as still as he first thought, the other man was doing that fidgety thing with his fingers. If Paul were playing poker with him then he’d _know_ the other man was bluffing.

He looked up slowly, returning Daryl’s hard stare with one of his own, and hissed out, “ _Bullshit.”_

It was like dropping a match on kerosene. Daryl’s face turned brick red and lunged forward so quickly that Paul was stumbling back several steps into a defensive posture without realizing it, “What the _fuck_ do you know?” Daryl shouted, “You think just ‘cuz we had a few beers every now an’ then you _know_ me? I just did it ‘cuz I thought I _owed_ you for the legal stuff. Don’t _owe_ you anything more’n that, so get the fuck outta my house. Come here again you’re gonna get your ass _kicked_!” Daryl punctuated that last word by slamming a fist into the palm of his opposite palm.

The silence was louder than Daryl’s shouting. So this is what a broken heart felt like. Interesting. He remembered what Tim had said to him, about the trail of broken hearts Paul left in his wake. Maybe this was karma. Paul _had_ gotten his ass kicked before, been gut punched and kicked in the face and worse; none of it hurt anywhere near as bad as Daryl shouting that he was only friends with him out of obligation. He didn’t know if Daryl meant it or was just lashing out, he just knew that the other man said it. That even if Daryl was gay and had feelings for Paul it was so abhorrent that he’d say those things rather than deal with it.

“You never owed me anything,” Paul said in a hoarse whisper, “I’d have helped you regardless. I’m sorry, everyone in your life must have fucked you over so bad you don’t recognize when someone does something for you just to be nice. I won’t waste any more of your time.”

Daryl didn’t answer; just kept staring at him with those hard eyes. “Ok, then,” Paul said, then turned to leave. He stood there with his back to Daryl for a second before he was able to make his legs move. He took a deep, shuddery breath and walked out of Daryl’s shack. He had to stop again when he shut the front door, had to bury his face in his hands and get control of his breathing. His chest burned and part of him was worried he was going to start crying. But fortunately for what was left of his dignity he hadn’t cried in over a decade, he’d forgotten how.

He walked stiffly down the gravel driveway to his car. It was only three o’clock but it was as dark as early evening. There was a flicker of lightning, and when Paul glanced up a few fat drops of rain splashed against his face. He got into his car just in time, as soon as he closed the door the sky opened up and rain started thundering down. Paul put his key in the ignition and stared blankly at it without twisting it. He couldn’t really see out his windows, it was all blurred away.

“Fuck,” Paul said quietly, then repeated the swear at full volume, punching the steering wheel again and again. He slumped over the steering wheel, gasping out almost-sobs until he was able to pull himself together enough to start the car. He flicked the wipers on, and there was another flash of lightning followed almost immediately by a rumble of thunder.

He popped the gearshift in reverse and started backing out of the drive, looking over his shoulder as he did so. Before he pulled out onto the road he glanced back for one final look at the house and he saw Daryl standing on the porch.

Paul sat in the driver’s seat with his foot on the brake. The wipers flicked back and forth; the world obscured by streaks of water only to be wiped clean for an instant. He couldn’t see Daryl well enough to tell why he was standing there—making sure Paul left? Trying to stop him from leaving?

After what felt like an eternity Daryl jumped down from his porch and started walking down the drive toward Paul’s car, shoulders hunched against the rain. He walked slowly over the gravel, and Paul realized his feet were still bare. When he reached the window Paul hit the button and the glass slid down. Rain came in the car, splashing Paul on the face; Daryl was already soaked. He leaned forward, placing his hand on the roof of the car for balance. Their eyes met for a split second and Daryl looked away quickly.

“Don’t go,” Daryl said, so quietly Paul barely heard him over the wind and rain. He was shivering a little, gooseflesh rising on his bare arms. He was acting completely different than he had a few minutes earlier when he’d been shouting to get out of his house, but Paul was still wary.

“I told you that you don’t owe me anything,” Paul said, “Don’t worry about it, Tim will still work on your—“

“I didn’t mean that and you know it,” Daryl said, voice rising a little, “and that bloodsucker can go to hell for all I care, and take the money with him.”

Paul sat in his seat, staring at Daryl’s tense shoulders. The other man wasn’t looking at his face, his eyes were firmly glued to Paul’s hands on the steering wheel. He took a deep breath, and said, “Daryl…I don’t, I can’t do this—“

“ _Please,”_ Daryl said, voice cracking a little, “don’t go. I’m sorry.”

Over a decade’s worth of instincts screamed at Paul to just go, leave. He’d tried doing the brave thing, the _stupid_ thing, tried letting another person in, tried _loving_ another person, and that person just threw it back into his face. Did it matter if he was sorry about it? Paul was discovering that broken hearts fucking _hurt,_ and he didn’t know if he could take what was left of his it breaking _again._

It was the memory of Tim saying there was a block of ice where Paul’s heart should be that made him put the gearshift into park and turn off the car’s engine.

************

Lou started getting drowsy minutes after she gobbled down the food Paul laced with sedatives. He waited until she was falling over and drooling all over the floor before shutting her up in the master bathroom. He reckoned that on the second floor in the interior of the house if she did wake up and started crying the roamers either wouldn’t hear her, or if they _did_ wouldn’t be able to get at her even if they broke through the front door. At least not before he got back. When she saw that he was leaving she tried to get to her feet but slumped over immediately onto the blanket Paul had laid down for her.

He’d briefly considered putting the remainder of the sedatives and some food in a tupperware container in the bathroom, figuring if he didn’t come back she’d eventually chew through it and overdose. Better than her slowly starving to death if something happened to him. In the end he couldn’t make himself do it; and simply decided that not returning from this little errand wasn’t an option.

_Errand._ What a way to think of what he was going do today. He wanted to laugh or cry or scream or just go back to sleep. But he knew he couldn’t do any of those things, and that he had to at least _try_ to do this. Resolved, he got suited up in his riding gear, debating on whether or not to wear his helmet. He decided that any minimal protection it could provide would be outweighed by restricted peripheral vision so he left it behind. He gathered his things and left the house via the garage door, opening it just enough to first slide out his backpack full of supplies before crawling out himself.

******

Most of the students were gone for summer break when everything had happened, and on top of that thousands of townies must have been evacuated. Headed for the supposed safety of Atlanta, not knowing that even if they reached the city it would soon be burned to the ground.

That still left too many fucking people in the city to die and come back. Paul found out immediately that Athens belonged to the dead. A few were shuffling slowly down his street, the noise of the garage door squealing open drawing them in. He froze at the sight of them, studying their faces, and was relieved when he didn’t recognize any of them. He had packed plenty of weapons for this little outing—one of Daryl’s rifles and several of his hunting knives in addition to the Glock — but he knew firing any of the guns would draw in even more of the dead.

The little Honda off road bike was still where he’d parked it in the driveway, and Paul got on quickly and fired it up. He pulled out of the drive and swung out into the street. More of the dead were coming, the sound of the bike’s engine alerting them to Paul’s presence. He sped away as quickly as he could.

******

Paul had a detailed map of the city that he split into a grid before he set out. He knew what he was doing was probably futile, a waste of energy, but he needed to try. In the first section of his grid he found a house that was taller than any of the others surrounding it, a trellis going up the side. After a few minutes’ consideration Paul decided it would do. He parked the bike near it, studied the trellis then climbed up to the roof. The trellis shivered underneath his hands but didn’t break. When he got to the roof he removed a crowbar from his pack and grabbed the rifle before climbing back down. He slowly drifted down the street, studying the cars parked against the curb. He had a little packet of firecrackers but wasn’t sure they would be enough for what he needed. With any luck one of these cars still had juice and an alarm. He used the crowbar to smash driver’s window of a car a few houses down from where he’d stashed his pack. Then another, and another. When he smashed the window of a fourth an alarm started blaring so loudly that Paul jumped and cried out. 

He paused only a minute to gather himself before racing back down the street. The first of the dead were coming, drawn in by the racket. He used the trellis to shimmy up the side of the house he’d chosen, getting to the roof not a moment too soon. Once he caught his breath he pulled the binoculars he’d packed out and waited.

The alarm wailed, drawing in a morbid parade of the dead. They surrounded the car, fingers scraping mindlessly against it.

_Look at everything,_ Daryl had told him.

Paul scanned the growing horde. Trying to pick out individual roamers in the teaming mass wasn’t easy; he knew he was looking for not just a needle in a haystack, but a moving needle surrounded by moving hay. That what he was doing was probably futile, but he had to do it.

Hours passed, and still the alarm continued to blare, drawing in even more roamers. Paul thought of their one asshole neighbor whose car alarm went off regularly during the small hours of the morning, remembered how many times Daryl threatened to march over and kick the guy’s ass. Paul almost laughed, feeling barely sane.

That’s when he saw a roamer with broad shoulders, dark hair, and wearing a leather jacket that looked an awful lot like the one he’d bought Daryl a few Christmases ago.

Everything froze. The colors around him seemed to grow brighter, _pulsing_ from the corners of his eye. Paul’s throat burned and for a split second he thought he’d throw up. He forced himself to move forward, adjusting the binocular and staring at the roamer, willing it to turn around so he could get a look at its face.

“Come on, come one,” whispered Paul, each beat of his heart making the acid burn in his throat flare. As if it heard him the roamer swayed on its feet, turning into his direction enough for Paul to see its face. When he saw it through the binoculars a small whimper came helplessly from his mouth, he couldn’t tell if it was from relief or sorrow. He lowered the binoculars and collapsed against the roof, rolling over onto his back and staring up into the sky. The roamer had been missing half its face but there was still enough to tell that it wasn’t Daryl.

Paul knew that there was a good possibility that there was nothing left to reanimate, and even if there was it would just be a shell, that what made Daryl _Daryl_ would be long gone. But Paul _needed_ to find it; the thought of Daryl’s body—the one he’d lain next to countless nights, the body that he knew every square inch of—being dragged all over creation until it rotted away into nothing was too much to bear. Unwillingly his mind went back to the day he’d gone to Daryl’s house and confessed he loved him, remembered Daryl begging him to come back inside and what happened after.

**********

When Paul followed Daryl inside for the second time the other man was acting completely different than he had been ten minutes ago. Instead of standing there stoically with his shoulders hunched Daryl was pacing the length of his small living area, and instead of pointedly not looking at Paul he kept shooting quick, terrified glances. Daryl was soaked after standing by Paul’s window and begging him not to go and Paul was just as wet himself from the short trip to the door, it was _pouring._ The rain rattled against the roof of Daryl’s shack, making Paul feel a little claustrophobic and trapped. Bright flashes of lightning followed by rumbles of thunder punctuated Daryl’s restless pacing. Occasionally he stopped and looked at Paul, opened his mouth as if to say something before snapping it shut and going back to his pacing.

Paul wasn’t going to say anything, childishly thinking that he’d already said his piece and it was now _Daryl’s_ turn to do the hard stuff. But he couldn’t take Daryl’s silence any longer and blurted out, “Why would you care if greasy rednecks aren’t my type of you’re not gay?’

Daryl froze in his tracks, eyes wild. He was breathing hard and shaking a little, his hands trembling. He still didn’t say anything, although it looked like he wanted to. Paul wanted to throw his hands up in frustration, wanted to run back to his car and go somewhere he could lick his wounds, wanted to grab Daryl and _force_ him to talk. “Fuck’s sake, Daryl, talk to me. I can’t…if you want to just be friends it’s fine, if you need time to _adjust_ it’s fine, I promise I w—“

That was as far as Paul got before Daryl lunged at him. It happened so fast Paul’s instincts almost took over and made him punch the other man in the face. But Daryl stopped a few inches from him, leaning into his space and breathing harshly, shoulders tense but not threatening. He grabbed Paul by the upper arms, fingers digging in so hard it was sure to leave bruises, and pulled him close.

As kisses went it wasn’t the best as far technique was concerned. Daryl just sort of mashed their faces together, their noses getting in the way, and there was entirely too much saliva. But Paul didn’t give a fuck about _technique,_ however. Not at that moment at least. All he cared about was the eagerness thrumming through Daryl, it was like being caught in a riptide; there was no use struggling and the only thing to do was to go with it until he could regain control.

Which he did when after the first frantic rush of lust Daryl slowed down, as if he was coming back to himself and just realized what he was doing. Before he could pull away Paul grabbed Daryl’s hips in his hand and jerked him close. He got up on his tiptoes, tilted his head, and kissed Daryl properly. It made the other man _whimper,_ and Paul could feel Daryl’s dick pressing into his stomach, he was getting hard just from kissing. Paul wanted to drop down to his knees and suck him off, wanted to bend him over the couch and fuck him, wanted to throw him to the floor and ride him until he was begging for mercy.

But he wasn’t sure how far he could go with Daryl, he was coming apart in Paul’s arms just from kissing and despite everything it was difficult to forget his earlier outburst. Finally Paul pulled away and buried his face in Daryl’s neck and tried to catch his breath. They were pressed together and Paul could feel the other man’s heart racing against his own. Daryl’s hands had migrated to Paul’s lower back, the fingers of one just underneath his shirt.

To his surprise it was Daryl who spoke first, “I don’t know what am I s’posed to do.”

Paul wasn’t sure how to answer that question, or even what he meant exactly by asking it. Did he mean in the immediate situation, with the kissing and groping? Did he mean their relationship and being into men in general? Because Daryl definitely wasn’t straight, Paul had the proof digging into his lower belly. Finally he groaned into Daryl’s neck, “I want you, if you want me can we please keep doing this, maybe move to the couch or a bed.” He punctuated this statement with kisses against Daryl’s neck and jaw. Daryl let out a strangled moan andjerked Paul’s head up to kiss him, tongue probing his mouth awkwardly and teeth digging into his lips.

Paul wasn’t sure exactly how they made it to the bedroom, he was vaguely aware of stumbling through the living room and into the nearest open door. He had a vague impression of a small bedroom with peeling wallpaper and a water-stained ceiling before was pushed down onto a mattress with Daryl on top of him, thrusting against his belly.

Their first time wasn’t the sort of thing that made it into romance novels—it involved a lot of grappling and accidentally elbowing each other. Getting their clothes off proved difficult as Daryl wouldn’t or couldn’t stop kissing him. His hands were everywhere, sliding up under Paul’s shirt, stroking one of Paul’s legs. Paul fumbled at the buttons and zip of Daryl’s jeans, when he was finally able to slide a hand in and grab the other man’s dick Daryl _yelled_ out something unintelligible. He buried his face in Paul’s neck and started thrusting into his hand. Paul slid an arm around Daryl’s shoulders, holding him close as he jerked him off. Daryl was moaning nonsense words with Paul’s name occasionally mixed in. It was over in minutes, he felt Daryl’s muscles tense and he let out a final cry before spilling come in between their bellies then collapsing. His weight knocked the air from Paul’s chest and pinned his hand awkwardly between them.

Paul stroked Daryl’s back while his mind tried to catch up to what had just happened. It had all been so fast, less then twenty minutes ago he’d been in his car on the verge of tears because a few minutes before _that_ Daryl was shouting that he wasn’t gay and was only Paul’s friend out of obligation. Now Daryl was shivering in his arms, shirt shoved up to his neck and jeans pushed down just enough to get his dick out. He was so off-kilter he almost missed Daryl whispering, “I love you too,” into his neck. The words were were barely audible but hot against his skin. Paul swallowed; saying it himself had been terrifying enough, having it repeated back to him was even scarier.

Part of him wanted to bolt and he mentally told that part of himself to quit being a pussy. Instead of bolting he tugged at the hem of Daryl’s shirt, the other man taking the hint and after a brief hesitation moving just enough to tug it off. Paul arced up and kissed him, pushing gently at his shoulders until he got Daryl to roll over onto his back. Paul sat up and tugged at Daryl’s jeans, urging him to lift his hips so he could take them all the way off. By then Daryl had recovered enough to help peel off Paul’s own clothes. Daryl’s movements were slow and clumsy, like a man who is sleepwalking. His eyes dropped down to Paul’s still hard dick, and to Paul’s surprise he showed no hesitation in taking him in hand. Paul didn’t last much longer than Daryl had, coming with a soft gasp. When he was finished Daryl grabbed him and held him tightly to his chest.

They stayed that way for a long time, heartbeat against heartbeat gradually slowly down. Paul reached up and combed his fingers through Daryl’s hair tenderly, his mind was blank and faraway. Daryl was the first one to break the spell, slowly disentangling himself and rolling away He leaned over the side of the bed and groped around for his jeans. When he found them he fished out a lighter and a pack of cigarettes. Watching him light up shouldn’t have been sexy but it was. Daryl took a few deep puffs off the cigarette before settling down on his back next to Paul.

“Can I get a drag off of that?” Paul asked. Daryl took another puff before passing it over. Paul took a few drags, coughing a little at the last one, before handing it back to Daryl. Their fingers brushed against each other.

“I done this before,” Daryl blurted out, and immediately looked up at the ceiling. Paul studied him with raised eyebrows, “With a guy, I mean.” Daryl kept staring at the ceiling, now in a deliberate way to avoid looking at Paul, “Just once. Long time ago.”

Paul let that sink in before softly asking, “Who was it with?”

“Never got his name,” Daryl answered quietly, “Just some guy passing through. Met him at Willie’s, the bar me’n Merle used to go to.” Paul studied his profile. As he watched he could see Daryl’s Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallowed. Daryl’s eyes flicked over to him, then went back to the ceiling.

“How old were you?” Paul asked gently.

“Twenty-two,” Daryl replied, sounding embarrassed, “I’d only had sex a couple times ‘fore then. With women, you know. Didn’t see what the fuss was, till this guy…” he waved his hand holding the cigarette in the air in some undefined gesture, “He blew me and I jerked him off, then we said our goodbyes. I don’t think we said more’n ten words to each other."

Paul was quiet, he didn’t need to be told that he was the first person Daryl had shared this story with. “And you never tried it again?”

“Not until just now,” Daryl said, darting a quick look at Paul then continued, “The first time, with that guy…I felt awful after. For months. Kept worryin’ ‘bout Merle finding out, and…well, we didn’t use rubbers or nothing…” he swallowed, then said, “And…I just…I just felt bad.”

“I understand,” Paul said quietly. He’d had quite a few encounters like the one Daryl just described. Some had been hot, many just made him feel a little sleazy, and a handful made him feel…well, awful. Paul felt his heart grow heavy in his chest with sadness for his…whatever Daryl was to him now. Friend, boyfriend, fucking hell whatever. To know that he’d been denying that part of him for so long.

Paul’s heart grew even heavier when Daryl blurted out, “We didn’t even kiss or nothing,” his face turned red, “I know that’s stupid, but…”

“It’s not stupid at all,” Paul said, remembering the frantic, animal way Daryl had kissed him. Like he was starving for it, like he had thousands of kisses stored up and tried to give them all at once. Paul shifted against the bed and leaned over him, kissing him softly on the mouth. Gentle kisses, slow and careful. He’d only meant to give Daryl a few but he found himself getting lost in what he was doing and didn’t stop until Daryl jerked away with a hiss of pain. He still had a lit cigarette in his hand and the cherry had burned its way down to his finger tips. He leaned over to the nightstand where there was an ashtray he could snuff it out.

“How do you feel now?” Paul asked quietly, “After this?”

“Good. Real good,” Daryl said, voice low and childlike.

“Me too,” Paul replied, then laid a hand on Daryl’s cheek and the other man’s eyes slid closed.

“I don’t know what I’m s’posed to do,” Daryl said, voice hoarse and cracking. Paul remembered him saying the same thing when they were kissing earlier, and he felt just as unsure about how to answer.

“What do you want to do?” he settled on asking, “Because I want to do this again. All the time. I want you to be my boyfriend,” he made a face, it sounded so high school, “Partner. Lover. Whatever. You’re the first guy I’ve ever asked that, I’m not sure it’s what _I’m_ supposed to do.”

Daryl’s eyes were still closed, and he squeezed them even tighter, face twisting, as though he was fighting hard with something. After a long pause his face gradually smoothed out and he gave the smallest of nods. “Yeah, ok,” Daryl whispered, “I can do that.”

************

When Paul returned home Lou was awake and alert but quiet. She jumped up when she saw him, paws against his chest and started licking his face and hands and whimpering softly.

“Hey girl,” Paul said, not bothering to push her away, just wrapping his arms around her and scooping her up so he could hug her to his chest. He could still feel every bone in her body, they would need to stay a while longer. Tomorrow he could go out again and check another section of his grid, and the next day. He had time.


	13. Daryl: Part VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. Again I want to reiterate that if I don't write otherwise you should assume things went down the same or almost the same way in canon.

Daryl was stretched out on the floor of the RV trying to get some shuteye. Trying being the word, he never felt less like sleeping. Mostly because Carol was crying. She wasn’t being too loud; very much the opposite. Carol cried softly, keeping her breathing even. She cried like a woman who expected to get hit if she woke someone up. In the end he couldn’t take it.

He pushed himself off the floor. Andrea hadn’t even bothered trying to get any rest, instead she was sitting at one the RV’s tables resentfully loading bullets into various gun clips. Daryl asked for his, explaining, “I’m gonna walk the road, take another look for the girl.” From her bed in the rear of the RV Carol was wiping her eyes and looking at him with a desperate kind of hope. He nodded to her, gathered up his crossbow and headed out.

He hadn’t gone more than a few yards outside the trailer when he realized Andrea had followed him out. “I’m coming with you,” she said, and Daryl didn’t see much point in arguing. She still had a grim, haunted look, the same one she had back at the CDC when she said she was staying.

Dale was on the roof of the RV standing guard, and Daryl called up to him, “Gonna walk the road, shine a light. Give her somethin’ to look at if she’s there.”

“Do you think that’s a good idea right now?” Dale asked. Even at a distance in the dark Daryl could see his enormous eyebrows furrowed with concern.

“Dale,” Andrea said coldly before Daryl could reply. That was all that took to shut him up. Daryl wasn’t sure what the deal was between them right now; he did know that Dale had somehow talked her into escaping the CDC and had confiscated her gun at some point. Wasn’t really his business beyond that.

They walked down the road occasionally shouting out Sophia’s name. Their luck was good; no walkers were drawn in by their hollering. It was a pleasant night, hot but not unbearably so, with a steady breeze that cooled them down as they walked. It was quiet except for their shouting and the familiar sound of cicadas and crickets chirping. After walking a good ways down the road they cut across into the woods where Rick had last seen Sophia.

They walked through the dark woods in silence, and Daryl had a moment to catch his breath. Think about everything that had happened over the past few days. They’d all nearly died at the CDC when Jenner had proved to be crazier than a shithouse rat; the place was rigged to self destruct in the event of an emergency and the motherfucker was planning on taking the entire group with him. As a _kindness._ Rick had managed to talk him into giving them a chance to escape, but Jacqui had stayed and Andrea had almost stayed.

The group had been scrambling west ever since, headed for Fort Benning, and Daryl kept traveling with them. It was as good a place as any, and if Merle was still alive that’s where he’d go. Still, it was odd, being with this group. He gave Andrea a sideways glance; immediately after the CDC he’d been ready to write her off as a complete bitch. He remembered her sneering at him, _‘Observant’? Big word for a guy like you. Three whole syllables"._ But any anger he felt toward her was gone; he supposed she had her reasons for being a complete bitch. Better ones than Shane the Dick had for being, well, a dick. Or Merle had for being Merle. 

Things had been going as smoothly as could be expected for a few days after the CDC, until yesterday morning they ran into a traffic jam then got swarmed by an entire herd of walkers. T-Dog cut his arm but he was the only one who got hurt.

That they knew of, at least. During the mess of the swarm Sophia had gotten separated from the group and was lost. They were on their second day searching for her, and things just went from bad to worse. They’d split up into groups; Rick, Shane, and Carl in one. Supposedly while they were all doing _that_ Carl had gotten in an accident, been _shot._ They found this out earlier when a strange woman on horseback came tearing through the woods shouting out for Lori. The stranger had saved Andrea’s life before taking off with Lori and shouting directions to her family farm. T-Dog’s cut got infected, so he and Glenn had gone to where this farm supposedly was. Daryl hoped to hell they were decent people and not fucking cannibals or even just garden variety assholes.

Daryl also hoped to hell Carl wasn’t dead; thinking that the kid was hurt made him feel helpless and angry. It wasn’t like he and ol’ Rick were bosom buddies or ever likely to be, but you’d have to be made outta stone not to feel for the guy.

“Do you really think we’re gonna find Sophia?” Andrea asked him, interrupting his brooding over the past few days.

He raised his flashlight so he could study her face then snorted with anger. “You got that look on your face, same as everybody else. The hell’s wrong with you people? We just started looking.”

“Well, do you?” Andrea replied.

“It ain’t the mountains of Tibet. It’s _Georgia,_ ” Daryl said in exasperation. He’d run wild in woods not unlike these since before he could remember. “She could be holed up in a farmhouse somewhere. People get lost and they survive, happens all the time.”

“She’s twelve,” Andrea said.

“Hell, I was younger than her and I got lost,” Daryl said stubbornly. Before he knew what he was doing he was telling her the story of the time he got lost in the woods when he was ten, living off of berries and wiping his ass with poison oak.

Andrea laughed, and when Daryl glanced at her she looked almost surprised at her reaction. He glared half-heartedly at her; it was a funny story. Paul got a lot of mileage out of it, whenever they went camping he’d point out some poison oak and make _some_ smartass remark.

Daryl could almost feel himself deflate at the thought. A lump formed in his throat, and he stared into the beam of light ahead of them. The two days had been one clusterfuck after another and he just hadn’t had the _time_ to remember that Paul was dead. That he’d been dead for _months;_ Daryl had lost count of the days since he heard that horrible recording. Andrea either noticed his mood or was just still lost in her own grief because she didn’t try to have more conversation after that.

They stumbled on the camp after about an hour of walking through the woods. Daryl moved forward eagerly, calling out, “Sophia?” in a low voice. He was startled by a noise, and looked up.

“Oh _god_ ,” Andrea said when she saw.

It was a walker hanging from a tree, a noose around its neck. The walker’s legs had been eaten away down to the bone, stringy flesh hanging off in strips. At the base of the tree was a handwritten note. “Got bit,” Daryl read aloud, “Fever hit. World turned to shit. Guess I’ll quit.” Daryl raised the flashlight up at the snarling walker. “Dumbass didn’t even know enough to shoot himself in the head. Turned himself into a big, swinging piece of bait. And a mess.”

Andrea turned away and groaned; when Daryl asked if she was alright she said she was trying not to puke. “Let’s talk about something else for a minute,” she whimpered. Just to be a dick he explained to Andrea how the walker’s legs had been eaten away, probably by other walkers. Mid-sentence he was interrupted by the sound of Andrea retching.

“I thought we were going to change the subject,” Andrea said in a rough voice.

“Call it payback for laughing at my itchy ass,” Daryl replied, “Let’s get going.”.

“Are we just going to leave him there?” Andrea asked, voice soft.

“Why not? He ain’t hurting nobody up there. Made his choice, didn’t he?” Daryl sneered, angry at the poor dumb son of a bitch. What was it Jenner had said to them, the first night at the CDC? “Opted out,” Daryl added.When he walked past Andrea she didn’t move, and was still staring wide-eyed at the hanged walker. “You want to live now, or not?” Daryl asked her.

She turned to him, nonplussed by his bluntness. He shrugged and told her it was just a question. She turned slowly back to the walker and said, “Answer for an arrow? Fair?” It was a waste of an arrow, but whatever. He took aim and fired. The walker went still and Daryl looked at Andrea expectantly. “I don’t know if I want to live,” she said, “or if I have to, or if it’s just a habit.”

Daryl thought about that. “Not much of an answer.”

Andrea just shrugged, then shifted to face him fully. The look she gave him made fresh sweat trickle down his temples. “What about you?” she asked.

“What about me?”

“You want to live now?” Daryl opened his mouth to answer and before he could say anything she was talking again, “I might have had a few other things on my mind, but I noticed. Back there. You hesitated.”

Daryl did his best not to show her comment shook him up. He had been trying not to think about those final moments in the CDC, right when that nut job Jenner said the whole place was rigged to blow, and that “opting out” was the best choice. Daryl had threatened him with an ax but Rick was the one who actually talked the man into letting them out into the lobby where they had a better chance of escape. Before Daryl could make himself run a thought came to him: He had no idea what Paul’s last moments had been like. Daryl thought of the brief bit of footage he’d seen on TV, the blazing wreckage of the airplane. Did Paul die on impact? Had he survived the crash briefly, only to be caught up when the engines exploded? Had he seen his death coming in the form of a bright fireball then felt a split second of agony when he was consumed by the flames? An alien voice in Daryl’s mind whispered that if Daryl stayed he’d know exactly how he felt. It would be fitting, a kind of symmetry, both of them dying the same way. And wasn’t it what Daryl deserved? Paul would still be alive if Daryl hadn’t been such a chickenshit about getting on a dang airplane.

 _Fuck that noise, baby brother! Get your ass clear of there!_ Merle’s voice thundered in his head, followed by a softer, _You promised not to die, Dixon._ Paul’s voice.

“Alright,” Daryl said to Andrea, “So what if I did? Got myself movin, didn’t I? Didn’t need nobody talking me out of it.” No one actually there, at least.

“Who did you lose?” Andrea asked, “It wasn’t Merle.” She was studying him as though she was really seeing him for the first time.

“Don’t matter,” Daryl snapped, “Let’s find that little girl.” This time when he started walking he didn’t bother to see if Andrea followed him.

*******

 _Odd to have a funeral with no body_ , Daryl thought to himself. Instead their hosts had erected a cairn in place of a grave, and the old man who owned the farm said a prayer. Talking about how this fella had died to save Carl’s life, how children were their most precious asset. Daryl had gotten the story along with everyone else from Rick when they arrived a few hours ago, how Carl got shot because of a stupid hunting accident. One this Otis fella had caused. Daryl supposed he was being uncharitable by thinking that dying while on a run to get medical supplies was the least this fella could do to make up for it.

The old man—guy called Hershel, finished his prayer and asked Shane to share a few words as he had been with Otis right when he died. Daryl watched Shane sputter and try and beg off, only to give in at Otis’s wife pleading that she needed to know her husband’s death had meaning.

So Shane stepped forward, looking like an asshole with his freshly shaved head and overalls. Stood there and talked about how Otis had sacrificed his life for Shane’s, how Otis’s death had meaning. How Otis had told him to go ahead, to save the boy.

 _You’re a shitty liar, Shane ol’ Buddy,_ Daryl thought to himself coldly. He glanced at Rick, theother man’s face was pale and still, and he didn’t look at Shane once. _He ain’t buying this neither._ Something had happened, something bad. Daryl glanced at Carol, face just as pale and haggard as Rick’s was and remembered how her face had crumpled when he and Andrea came back without Sophia last night. It was enough for him to decide to keep his mouth shut about any suspicions he had about Shane and Otis. _After all,_ he thought again, _it’s the least the guy could do._

_******_

After the funeral they were able to focus on the more pressing task of finding Sophia. Shane’s ankle was still a mess and Hershel said Rick couldn’t go anywhere after donating the amount of blood he had, so Daryl was on his own. Which he preferred, and what he told Rick when the other man cornered him before he set out.

Specifically, “I’m better on my own. Be back before dark.”

“We got a base,” Rick said, “we can get this search properly organized now.”

“You got a point, or you just chatting?” Daryl asked, irritated. Rick Grimes of all people should know every minute they wasted made the likelihood of finding Sophia even smaller.

“My point is,” Rick said, “it lets you off the hook. You don’t owe us anything.”

Daryl felt like he’d been slapped. He knew that he wasn’t part of this group, knew he didn’t count as part of “us”, but that didn’t mean he’d leave a twelve year old to die. Was _that_ what everyone thought of him? His mind flashed to years ago, Merle saying that nobody would ever care for him but his brother. Wasn’t entirely accurate; Paul cared about him but that was clearly a once in a lifetime thing and Daryl had never really deserved him anyway. “My other plans fell through,” Daryl snapped, turning and stalking off into the woods to start looking.

******

He didn’t find her before dark. All he found were Cherokee roses blooming thick and full. He remembered a story his Grandpa had told him on one of their camping trips; not the usual ghost story to make them jump an shiver, but one that was sad. Sad, but pretty all the same.

Feeling a little foolish he carefully picked one of the bigger roses he could find. He’d give it to Carol and tell her that story. Something that might comfort her, something to apologize for the fact Daryl still hadn’t found her daughter.

******

Daryl’s first whiff of a trail came the following day, and he found it at a hell of a price. That morning he set out early on one of Hershel’s horses and rode into the woods. After a few hours of riding he came upon a gully formed around a swift stream that poured into a shallow pool of water. In that pool of water he found a familiar doll, one that looked an awful lot like Sophia’s.

Excitement coursed through him, he’d picked up her trail, _finally_ , after days of this shit. He urged the horse on, keeping his eyes peeled for other signs. That’s when the horse started; Daryl caught a glimpse of diamond patterned scales slithering through the dead leaves before reared up. Daryl tried to maintain control but he was sliding out of the saddle, the world was tilting crazily, and he was falling the fifteen or so feet down the gully, landing in the icy water of the pool.

“Son of a bitch,” he choked out. He hurt everywhere, and he had a brief memory of waking up in a ditch more than four years ago. Pain roared in his side when he tried to move and saw that he’d landed on one of his own damned crossbow bolts. If he weren’t in so much agony he would have laughed. Instead he moved stiffly, tried to tie it off. He looked up the side of the gully he’d come tumbling down, legs weak and trembling. He steeled himself and started walking, every step making his side cry out.

He was able to get to the edge of the water before dizziness overcame him. He collapsed, rolled over onto his back and stared up at the dazzling sun before passing out.

******

“Babe?” a voice said, full of exasperated fondness, “what are you doing? Taking a nap?”

Daryl opened his eyes. The sunlight filtered in through the trees, dazzling bright. Someone was hovering over him, his vision was doubled and Daryl couldn’t make out who it was. He squeezed his eyes shut and counted to ten. When he opened them he was looking at the most beautiful pair of eyes he’d ever seen, eyes the color of sea glass.

_Blue or green, whichever you prefer._

Daryl blinked, eyes finally focusing, “ _Paul?”_ His voice was a hoarse rasp, “what are you doing here?” It was Paul, in his old man cardigan despite the heat, hair curling at his shoulders. He was the most beautiful thing Daryl had ever seen.

Paul shrugged, “Thought I’d stop by, see what you were up to. Which is…lying on your ass by the river?”

“It’s been a shitty day, babe,” Daryl replied. There was something important that he should be remembering, but it didn’t come to him.

Paul laughed, “I can tell. What the heck are you doing out here?”

“They lost someone,” Daryl said, “A girl. She’s all alone out there, her mother’s back at camp, I been lookin’ for her…”

“Then it’s only a matter of time before you find her. Redneck Sherlock Holmes, remember? But you’re going to need to get up first.”

“Don’t know if I can.”

Paul shifted so he was stretched on his side by Daryl, propped up by one elbow. He peered down at Daryl’s side, “Ok, don’t touch that arrow,” he said, nodding, “It’s better to just leave a foreign object inside. Acts like a cork, keeps you from bleeding out.”

“I ain’t touching it,” Daryl answered, voice slow and sluggish. He closed his eyes, trying to remember what he forgot, that important thing— He opened his eyes and looked down at where Paul’s left hand was curled by his side. He could see just a bit of the winged skull tattooed on his ring finger. _Memento mori,_ Daryl thought, and closed his eyes again. His heart twisted in his chest, “You’re not really here. You’re…” he swallowed hard, “you’re dead.” As soon as he said it Daryl realized this was only the second time he’d said the words out loud. “I miss you,” he choked out, “So fucking much.”

“So what?” Paul asked, “So you’re running to try and join me in the great hereafter?”

“No,” Daryl said, tasting the lie in his mouth. Now that he was down here on his back he couldn’t deny the idea had a great deal of appeal. Just drift off, let blood loss and hypothermia take him away.

“You know you can’t lie to me, Dixon,” Paul said, “Where’s Lou?”

Daryl remembered Merle telling him that biters had gotten Lou, “She couldn’t…there were so many walkers…”

“So you _left_ her to get eaten?”

“I’m sorry,” Daryl said. He could feel hot tears squeezing out of his eyes, “I’m sorry for everything.”

“You know what the best way to make it up to me is, right?”

Daryl did know; it was what Paul always told him after they had a fight. Don’t do the same dumbass thing ever again. Learn from his mistakes and do better, “Can’t make this one up to you, babe,” he whispered, “it’s too late.”

“Bullshit, Dixon. It’s never too late. You left our dog, you don’t have to leave that little girl out here by herself. Get up and _go get her_.”

************

Paul got sick two weeks before Christmas. _Sick_ sick, running a high temperature that was accompanied by a deep, hacking cough. It came on suddenly; he left work early because he was feeling tired and that night Daryl woke up drenched in twice the usual amount of sweat. Sleeping next to Paul was like sleeping next a furnace on full blast most nights, a furnace that liked to sprawl all over you, and if asked Daryl would have said it couldn’t possibly have gotten any worse. Showed how wrong Daryl was, he didn’t know the meaning of hot until he woke up underneath his boyfriend running a fever.

That was how Daryl discovered they didn’t have thermometer; it was one of the seemingly endless little things that neither man had thought to buy. _Stuff._ There may have been a thermometer back at Daddy’s old place, but Daryl couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen it. Couldn’t remember the last time he or Merle were sick with anything other than the latter’s occasional bouts of VD.

It was almost two in the morning but Daryl still pulled on clothes over Paul’s protests so he could run to the pharmacy.

“You’re burnin’ up,” Daryl said.

“It’s probably just the flu,” Paul said, sipping the water Daryl had pressed on him in addition to some Tylenol. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes were a little glassy.

“You got that shot,” Daryl said accusingly. They _both_ had, Paul forced him to come along to the Walgreen’s to get stuck. Daryl had argued a bit, he hadn’t gotten a flu shot twenty years and only got the occasional cold over the winter. Paul, however, tended to get his way when he had his mind set on something.

“The shot’s not a hundred percent, they _tell_ you that,” Paul said, then coughed into his hand, “Tylenol will help the the fever, get back into bed, go in the morning.”

“Nope,” Daryl said, grabbing his wallet and keys. Paul tended to get his way but Daryl could be just as stubborn.

“The roads are slick, be careful,” Paul croaked. He looked too exhausted to argue.“Don’t get your dumbass in an accident.”

“Just a drizzle,” Daryl shot back, “Ain’t cold enough to ice over, and besides I can handle a little ice.”

“No one born south of the Mason-Dixon Line can handle ice, or a single flake of snow for that matter.”

“Grew up in the mountains,” Daryl said. “We got snow.”

“Not real—“

“Yeah, yeah, you walked through drifts higher than your head and when you pissed it froze soon as it hit the air, southerners are weak, I know.” Paul just gave him the finger and closed his eyes, burrowing under the blankets.

When Daryl got to pharmacy he had no idea what to fucking _buy._ There were dozens of thermometers costing anywhere from six dollars to sixty. The clerk working was no help, and of course the actual pharmacist wasn’t on duty at two in the morning. Daryl ended up grabbing one of the thermometers on the lower end of the pricing scale but not the cheapest. Along with that he bought several bottles of Gatorade and half a dozen different types of flu medicine, thinking that at least _one_ of them would work.

Despite his flippant words to Paul before he left Daryl was forced to drive slower than he would have liked. Paul’s worries about slick roads were not entirely baseless, the past few days had been wet and drizzling, not quite freezing but still cold in a way you felt all the way down in your bones. Daryl’s leg ached a little, the phantom memory of the break that had changed his life over a year before and he was still grateful for. Achey leg or no, he would later be grateful for that wet night and Paul’s bout with the flu. If he weren’t forced to slow down to a crawl and drive hunched over his steering wheel on the lookout for ice patches he would have never seen the puppy in time.

He still almost ran it over, it was wandering aimlessly by the side of the road and froze as Daryl’s truck came down on it. Daryl slammed on the brakes and there was a brief, panicked moment when the truck started to slide out of his control. Fortunately he was able to come to a stop no worse for wear. He sat behind the wheel with his heart thudding for a few breaths before jumping out of his truck.

The puppy hadn’t moved, it was still crouched down against the pavement letting out high pitched little whimpers. It was filthy and shivering with cold as much as fear. He couldn’t tell what breed or how old it was, not in the dark by the side of the road. It cringed away when Daryl bent down to pick it up. He only hesitated for a moment before tucking it into his jacket and wrapping his arms around it. He could feel the pup’s frantic heartbeat racing against his chest.

Daryl looked around; this section of town was all gas stations, fast food joints, and convenience stores. No houses for blocks, no good place to start looking for the pup’s owners even if it wasn’t two in the morning and freezing his balls off.

Fuck it, Paul was sick and needed some medicine and his temperature taken. Daryl would worry about finding the puppy’s owners—if it had any—later. They could keep it for awhile and if no one turned up they could give it to a rescue. Or, if they liked, keep it themselves. The thought made Daryl’s stomach flutter nervously, a faint echo of the jumble it had been when he asked if Paul wanted to live with him months ago. They’d talked about getting a dog but wasn’t something they’d gotten around to, it was stupid but Daryl kept thinking it was a commitment. How he was afraid to scare Paul off, even then.

He drove the rest of the way home with the puppy bundled up in his coat. Daryl could feel water soaking through his shirt, he had the heater on full blast but was still shivering a bit himself. If he hadn’t already gotten Paul’s flu then he bound to come down with something now. The puppy wiggled inside his coat and Daryl felt a tiny wet nose press against the underside of his chin followed by a quick lick.

When he got to the house he had a brief moment of indecision about what to do first—the puppy needed bathed, he needed to find a place to put it for the night, and he needed to get out of his wet clothes. However none of those things seemed as pressing as making sure Paul was ok, so Daryl went upstairs with the puppy still in his jacket, one arm cradling it. He looked ridiculous, like he was six months pregnant with a baby that audibly whimpered.

The bedroom light was still on but Paul had drifted off while Daryl made his pharmacy run. Daryl shook him gently awake. He blinked up at Daryl bleary-eyed, still flushed and sweaty.

“You’re back,” Paul croaked. His eyes fell shut.

“Mmm-hmmm,” Daryl grumbled as he tore open the package containing the thermometer. In his coat the pup was a squirmy wet lump. “Open your mouth so’s I can take your temperature.”

Paul obediently opened his mouth and Daryl tucked the thermometer under his tongue. After about a minute it made a rapid _beep beep_ noise.

“Hunnert and two,” Daryl said, squinting at the little digital read out on the thermometer. The thermometer came with a little instruction booklet that told him to seek medical attention in cases of fevers 103 F or higher.

“Not great,” Paul mumbled, “I’m not going to work tomorrow.”

“Not the day after, neither,” Daryl said with finality. “Here, take some of this shit I got you, see if it helps.”

Paul let out a huff, opened his eyes and weakly pushed himself up into a sitting position. “What did you g—what the fuck is in your coat?”

Daryl looked down, he’d almost gotten used to the puppy wiggling against his stomach. “Oh,” he said. He grabbed the metal tab of his zipper and opened his coat enough for the puppy to thrust its head out.

“Is there a puppy in your coat or am I just delirious?” Paul asked.

Daryl shrugged, “Found it when I was driving.”

“Hello puppy,” Paul said weakly, reaching out to scratch the pup’s ears. It became very interested in Paul’s fingers, nibbling on them with its little teeth. Paul’s eyes were a little far away, like he still thought this was a fever dream.

“I gotta wash it off,” Daryl said, pulling away. The puppy whimpered in protest. “Take some of this shit while I clean it up.” He gestured to the nightstand where he’d unloaded his pharmacy haul.

So that’s how Daryl ended up giving a puppy a bath at two thirty in the morning. He used some of Paul’s shampoo, it was all they had. The puppy did _not_ care for the experience. It—she, rather, Daryl taken a look before he lowered her into the warm water—started crying immediately in fright.

“What are you doing to him?” a voice said over Daryl’s shoulder. Paul had gotten out of bed and was leaning against the doorframe, blinking at Daryl bleary-eyed. As Daryl watched he turned aside and coughed explosively into the crook of his elbow.

The noise startled the puppy into being quiet. Her ears perked up and her little tail started wagging hopefully. “’S girl,” Daryl said, then, “Get your dumbass in bed, I got her.”

Paul didn’t move, “Is she a pit bull?”

“Think so,” Daryl said. She had the broad face, wide set eyes, and boxy head of that breed. As he cleaned her off he could see she was fawn-colored except for a few splashes of white on her toes and chest. He rinsed the last bit of soap suds off her and reached for the towel he’d laid out before he started washing her off. She tried to clamber out of the tub while his attention was diverted, claws scratching against the tub.

“Shhh, puppy don’t do that,” Paul said from the doorway. He sounded the same way he did after a few too many beers. He took a step forward and swayed on his feet.

“Damnit Paul, I said get back into bed,” Daryl snapped. He grabbed the puppy up and wrapped it with the towel then got to his feet and seized Paul by the elbow, steering him back into the bedroom and into bed.

“We gonna let her sleep with us?” Paul slurred, eyes drifting shut.

“Don’t want ‘er making you sicker,” Daryl said. He was sitting on the edge of the bed with the puppy in his lap and rubbing her dry with the towel. She seemed to think it was a game, she squirmed and nibbled at his fingers, then grabbed a corner of the towel with her teeth and started shaking it, letting out squeaky little growls.

The puppy ended up sleeping in bed with them anyway, Daryl tried locking her up in the bathroom at first but after an hour or so of nonstop crying he gave in. Paul was unbothered, the combination of medication and illness had rendered him dead to the world. Daryl wasn’t so lucky, and on top everything had to work in the morning. He got sick time but a part of him still didn’t trust the idea. So he brought the puppy in and laid her down at their feet before collapsing back into bed. He felt her little paws press down against his leg almost immediately as she crawled her way up, whining when he shoved her back down.

In the morning Daryl woke up with the puppy’s butt in his face. Her own face was tucked under Paul’s chin and they were both snoring away. She grumbled when Daryl pushed her away, curling up into a little ball and huddling against Paul’s chest. Paul murmured in his sleep and automatically wrapped an arm around her. Fuck, you’d have to be made of stone not to be moved by that. Daryl pressed his palm against Paul’s forehead, he was still hot to the touch. Daryl would wake him up in a few minutes to check his temperature again and force some more medicine into him but for now he just looked. Stroked Paul’s hair while watching the rise and fall of his chest. An odd feeling went through him. He didn’t have quite the words to explain it to himself; the closest he could come was an intense certainty that this moment was one of the things that would flash in front of his eyes right before he died.

***********

 _One foot in front of the other. One foot in front of the other. Don’t stop to think, just put one foot in front of the other_ , Daryl thought to himself. He’d somehow managed to drag himself to the top of the gully, side screaming in agony on the way. Everything was a blur and he was having trouble telling what was real and what wasn’t. Sometimes he thought he saw Paul walking a few feet ahead of him, head twisted over his shoulder and telling Daryl not to give up. Maybe he was still at the bottom of that gully bleeding out and this was a dream.

_One foot in front of the other. One foot in front of the other. One…_

He stumbled and had to stop moving, swaying on his feet. There were black spots dancing in front of his eyes.

“Daryl, you’re almost there. Come on, you gotta keep moving.”

His head felt like it weighed a thousand pounds when he looked up. Paul was there, looking like he had the morning he left for Chicago, the last time Daryl saw him alive. Head turned over his shoulder and his lips quirked, hand raised mid-wave. Daryl’s vision blurred and their were three figures flanking Paul, then Paul was fading away only to be replaced by Rick Grimes.

Daryl staggered to a halt, breathing harshly. Rick had his colt raised, pointing it at Daryl’s face in a panic.

“Is that Daryl?” a voice said. Glenn’s voice. Daryl realized that was one of the figures in front of him, and a few seconds later recognized Shane and T-Dog.

He glared at Rick, who was still aiming the colt at him. “That’s the third time you pointed that thing at my head,” Daryl growled, breath coming out in harsh pants, “You going to pull the trigger or what?”

Rick lowered the gun and sagged with relief.

Before Daryl could say anything else there was a distant _crack_ and at the same time something slammed into the side of his head with the force of a hammer and he went down.

 _Shot,_ Daryl thought distantly, _Fucker shot me._ He was vaguely aware of someone—maybe Rick, maybe Glenn—shouting “No! No!”

“I was kidding,” Daryl said stupidly. His head felt like it was on fire, hot blood soaking into his hair. Figures were surrounding him but they were fading away, growing distant. His last thought before losing consciousness was a fragmented memory of Lou curled up against Paul’s chest in the weak morning light. Then everything went black.


	14. Paul: Part VII

On the third day of Paul’s search for Daryl’s body he realized there were far fewer of the dead in the city than there should have been. Even accounting for people fleeing to Atlanta, even accounting for the absence of most of the student population over the summer, even if there were enough of the dead that a few times Paul got boxed in by a horde and only barely escaped. _There should be more,_ he thought with a great deal of unease.

He discovered the reason why on the fifth day, when his search took him toward campus. The sound hit him first, then the _smell._ The stink of death was pervasive all over the city, Paul had almost gotten used to it, a sickly sweet scent of rot that came drifting in on the wind. This was even worse, this _choked_ him, made him gag. He wore a loose bandana around his neck and took a moment to tie it around his face to keep his nose and mouth covered then pressed on.

The sound was hauntingly familiar; the distant, wavelike sound of the crowds at the stadium during a game. Only instead of an entire crowd cheering at once at various intervals punctuated by the echoing of the announcer over the PA it was an erratic hum that jangled his nerves and set his teeth on edge. A horrible thought came to him, one he almost didn’t want to know the answer to, didn’t think he _needed_ to know the answer to. He could guess well enough, but he found his feet moving toward the stadium regardless.

The route there was chaos—littered with crashed military and civilian vehicles alike, many with the dead still trapped inside. When he passed a few of them stirred, stretching their dead hands out weakly and snarling. Paul tried not to look at them as he walked past. He moved up Sanford Drive toward the arched bridge and walkway that looked down over the west end zone; it provided an almost complete view of the field.

When Paul reached the top of the bridge and looked down over the stadium he was hit with a memory of walking up there with Daryl one crisp fall afternoon on their way back from a lunch date. The two of them leaning against the railing and watching the little ant-sized players move across the field, listening to cheers from the crowd. It was a piss poor way to watch a game, the angle blocked part of the field and they’d be better off going home and watching it on TV or in listening on the radio while they lazed around in the backyard with Lou. But the sun was warm and Paul could still catch that excitement that came from a crowd of tens of thousands cheering at once so they stayed, Daryl’s shoulder pressed against his. Neither man were big on PDA so it was the equivalent of making out on the street for the two of them.

That long ago memory contrasted hideously with what he saw when he looked across the field. Sanford Stadium was the biggest football stadium in the state, at capacity it could fit more than ninety thousand people. There was nowhere near that, but that hardly mattered. Five thousand, maybe ten thousand, he couldn’t see the field for the numbers of walkers covering it. More were moving listlessly through the seating area, weaving around like ants. A sharp wind blew and the stench was overwhelming even with the bandana over his nose.

Paul collapsed with his back against the walkway’s railing, shaking a little. He could hear the low moans of thousands of the dead behind him, it made him feel like he would go insane if he listened for two long. He didn’t want to think too hard about what must have happened but he couldn’t help it. People must have fled to the stadium as a place they thought could be defended from the dead, maybe the military _told_ people to come there, more and more of them, _too_ many. All it would take would be for one person to turn and start turning others, Paul could see it in his mind. Thousands of panicked people trying to leave only to be trapped by the barricades set up to keep the dead _out._ Some people stumbling and falling only to be trampled to death by the panicked crowd, leaving more dead bodies to turn and attack at the crowd’s feet.

Paul shuddered and gagged again, feeling overwhelmed and helpless. After several long minutes he forced himself to his feet and headed for the house without looking back once, the groans of the dead following him a long way.

******

When Paul let Lou out of the master bathroom she was still a little groggy, but perked up enough to wag her tail and jump up, putting her paws on Paul’s shoulders and licking his face. Paul sank to his knees, pulling her in for a tight hug. She squirmed with excitement and licked his face even more energetically, her wet nose sniffing him with delight. He indulged her until she calmed down a bit, leaning against him with a huff and tucking her nose underneath his chin. He rubbed her ears distractedly, studying her. She was slowly getting her strength back and no longer looked like she was dead herself. Still, it would be weeks if not months before she gained back all the weight she lost.

“I don’t know what to do, girl,” Paul whispered. She lifted up her head at the sound of his voice, stared at him in adoration before giving him a few more licks.

 _Your dumbass knows what to do,_ Daryl’s voice growled from the back of Paul’s mind, _Get the hell outta town for starters. What happens if them walkers bust out of the stadium?_

Paul’s jaw clenched, hating that his subconscious chose to give that hideously disloyal thought Daryl’s voice. He hadn’t found Daryl’s body yet, hadn’t even searched a week for it.

 _If it’s in that stadium I’ll never find it,_ he thought, then immediately shoved it away. Daryl wouldn’t have fled to the stadium and left Lou behind, he would have taken his chances outside rather than crowd up in there. Daryl liked attending a game but he hated making his way through the crowd after, that mass of bodies all pressing up together. Paul’s treacherous mind couldn’t help from coming up with scenarios regardless—maybe Daryl had been injured and brought there, maybe Daryl had brought someone _else_ there and gotten swept inside.

“Fuck,” Paul said, his voice sounding broken and small. Lou whimpered and nuzzled him, nose snuffling into his hair.

_You know you’re never going to find it, right? He was either eaten before he turned, or is in that stadium, or just wandered off._

Paul blinked and looked around at the bedroom, and the horrible knowledge hit him—he wasn’t staying at the house just to look for Daryl’s body. That was part of it, but the real reason was he wanted to just stay in their house. Wanted to curl up in their bed and sleep, maybe wake up and find out this was a dream, maybe wake up and Daryl would be there, alive and unhurt.

Thinking like that, even subconsciously, was dangerous. Might as well grab the Glock and shoot himself, it would be quicker that way. He could be sure to shoot Lou first, she wouldn’t starve all alone like she would if something happened to Paul while he was out on his useless search.

Paul’s hands clenched into fists. He wanted to scream, wanted to throw a fucking tantrum like a five year old, just yell and kick the floor because this wasn’t fucking _fair,_ this was their _house,_ the house Daryl bought for them, the house that had a thousand different memories little and small of their mundane life together, the house that was the only place that’d felt like _home_ since the little bungalow he shared with his mom. When Paul left that house behind he swore that it would never happen again, he spent the next fifteen years pointedly _not_ getting attached to places or the people in them, not until Daryl _fucking_ Dixon was literally thrown into his life.

As he looked around the bedroom half-forgotten lyrics came to him: _Without love it ain’t nothing but a house, a house where nobody lives._ Who sang that one? Tom Waits? Nick Cave? He probably had it on his iPod, he could check later. He thought two months ago he would have known, but his mind was overloaded these days. Regardless of who sang it the words were the truth. No one lived here anymore, it was a mausoleum.

He looked down at Lou’s face, her ears perked and her tail beat against the floor. “We’re still alive,” he whispered, “but we won’t be if we stay here. Want to go for a ride?” Lou’s entire body went still for a second at the magic words, then her tail was whipping back and forth against the floor and she was quivering with barely contained excitement. “Ok,” Paul said, scratching her ears, “We’ll go soon.”

******

Paul fetched the old road atlas out of the truck, ignoring how it made his heart clench. He open the atlas up to Georgia, heart tightening again. He was old school when it came to maps, there were little circles drawn in pencil and his notes written in the margins. Routes he and Daryl took to go camping or look for some roadside curiosities or just to ride. He swallowed hard and flipped to the front, the entire country all on one map.

Paul knew they needed to leave, but the question was where to go. If Cobalt had taken out Atlanta that was a dead end. There was Fort Benign to the west and Fort Gordon to the east but he had zero desire to go near any military installation. _They’ve probably all been overrun or deserted anyway,_ he thought to himself.

There were really only two choices where to go; and one of them wasn’t an option he seriously entertained. Luke and Tess had dropped him off at O’Hare and said they planned on heading north toward Michigan and Lake Superior. There was an island they vacationed on, hardly anyone lived there, it was just wilderness and a few stone cabins. A good place to hole up. They said Paul was welcome to come with them and meant it, it wasn’t just because they knew he would never take them up on the offer. Nick and Conor were coming, along with a few more of their friends Paul didn’t really know. He remembered Tess pressing a kiss on his cheek, dark eyes wide and fearful. _Good luck._

Paul studied the old road atlas, tracing a route back the way he came, through Chattanooga, Nashville, Indy, Chicago, Milwaukee, up, up, up. He wondered if the group had made the trip; it looked like a good three or four hundred miles. If they left the day they dropped Paul off at the airport then they might have made it most of the way before the worst started, gone to ground up in Wisconsin or Michigan, somewhere isolated and remote. Or even continued north across the border into Ontario.

 _It’d be more than a thousand miles,_ Paul thought. And that would be the most direct route, if he tried swinging west to avoid the bigger cities he would add a few hundred more. It had taken him two weeks to get make his way from Bowling Green to Athens, going all the way to Superior could take two _months_ if not more. It would be October or November by the time he made it. He thought of how the icy winds that came whipping off Lake Michigan, cutting him to the bone. That oppressive, violent cold that howled and gibbered that he was nothing more than an ape who got lost far north of the equatorial savannah he was built for, that he did not belong there. It would be far worse three or four hundred miles north.

He then thought of Carmen and little Mateo with the caravan of soldiers, surely with all of them and the equipment they made it to DC. He remembered promising her that after he found Daryl both of them would head that way and almost gave a bitter laugh. He wondered what the group had found there, if there was any safe area or last line of defense, any government left.

 _Does it really matter either way?_ Paul thought to himself. The route to DC was half the distance as it would be to Superior, and he didn’t think he’d head back north even if an airplane magically landed and the pilot promise they could get there safely in a matter of hours. Going to Chicago in the first place was what had cost him Daryl. Their relationship had made Paul complacent, made him forget the risks that came with getting close to people. Made him think he could have it all, a home and a dog and a boyfriend wasn’t enough, he wanted friends on top of it.

***********

Paul and Daryl didn’t argue about much beyond the typical unavoidable irritants associated with living with another human being. Paul sneaking photos of Daryl without asking. Daryl’s habit of putting things back in the fridge even if they were almost empty. Paul’s refusal to ask for or follow directions he hadn’t planned out himself. Daryl smoking in the house and using not quite empty beer cans as ashtrays on top of that. Paul’s habit of just picking the lock when he forgot his keys. Arguments that resulted from any of these were almost playful.

One of the few things guaranteed to cause a _real_ fight was the gap in their sexual experience—Daryl’s insecurity over his lack of it clashing with Paul’s defensiveness of his excess of it. Paul thought it would have been an issue even if Daryl were straight or grew up in an environment where he didn’t have to repress his sexuality. Oh, the repression definitely played a role but Paul also thought it was just that Daryl wasn’t _built_ with the capacity to enjoy casual sex. The idea of just fucking a person you liked well enough but wanted nothing more didn’t compute.

Their first _real_ argument about it happened in the first winter that they lived together. It started on a rare dry evening, cold and crisp. That evening when he got home they immediately bundled Lou up in the red and black Bulldogs sweater Paul bought at the campus bookstore and set out. Januarys in Georgia were nothing compared to the ones Paul grew up with; no snow but miserably pissing down rain most days, a day when it was actually clear wasn’t to be wasted. The rain made both Paul and Daryl a little stir crazy even before they acquired a very energetic puppy who would destroy anything she could get her teeth in if she didn’t get her evening walk. Paul didn’t mind, he could handle the weather by bundling up and it was nice to move around outside after cooped up behind a desk all day. Daryl would bitch about the weather but he still joined them. Bad weather or no it was a good time for both of them to unwind from work.

“How was your day?” Daryl asked him after walking for a few minutes. He was hunched over with his hood up and hands buried in his pockets but looked content.

“Weird,” Paul said. His head was still spinning with it.

“Yeah?” Daryl said, giving him a look.

Paul realized he was fucking _embarrassed,_ which was stupid. He listened to Lou’s nails click against the pavement for a minute before saying, “Sheila called me into her office today.”

“Was it to write you up for stealin’ books?”

“I don’t steal them; it’s a library. You can take books from them for _free,_ I dunno if you heard that.”

Daryl snorted, “My info must be outta date, ‘cuz I thought you had to give ‘em back eventually.”

“I’ll give them back,” Paul said, “ _Eventually_.”

“How many of them things you have? Thirty? Fifty?”

“Don’t exaggerate,” Paul said, although he knew the exact number (thirty-six) that he had squirreled away in the computer room and stacked on the nightstand on his side of the bed. It was one of the hazards of working in a library, every day something new and interesting crossed his desk so he _had_ to check it out; and he could override the due dates and the maximum checkout number. No man should have that kind of power, it was a recipe for corruption. “But anyway. Sheila called me in, told me she had good news for me.”

“She quittin’?”

“I said ‘good news’, not ‘fucking fabulous news,’” Paul said, “It was to tell me I got…well, I got an award.” His face was turning hot, it sounded so _childish._ “The Outstanding Staff Award. Kate nominated me.”

“Hell _yeah_ ,” Daryl said, sounding proud but not surprised, “You run that fucking place.”

“I don’t,” Paul said, getting uncomfortable.He still couldn’t believe he had won an actual award, even if Kate was his favorite coworker and it was her project he’d been working on last fall.

Daryl snorted, “Place’d fall apart without you.” When Paul looked at his face he saw his boyfriend was _beaming_ at him. Paul dropped his eyes and nervously kicked a pebble off the sidewalk. Lou’s ears went up at the sound and she jumped a little, looking around frantically to see if that sound meant there was a squirrel to stare at or a cat to hide from. “Paul?” Daryl said, sounding confused, “It’s a good thing, right?”

“Yeah, it’s just…” Paul sighed, “I’ve only been there a few years, is all. Surprised it didn’t go to someone else.” There was more, he just didn’t know how to explain to Daryl that he felt like a fake. He liked his job, but didn’t consider himself some tireless model employee. He liked his job _because_ it was low stress; and while he was often busy it was a cakewalk compared to his previous jobs waiting tables or as a line cook. His annual review this winter had been good but not _award worthy._ He was still a little baffled, expecting the whole thing to end at any minute. It started out as a temporary job, last winter they hired him on permanently, and now he was getting an _award._ “But anyway, award comes with some money for ‘professional development’. Kate wants me to use it to go to Chicago with her this summer, I said I’d talk to you first.”

“What for? You’re going, right? It’s a big deal, ain’t it?”

“I guess so,” Paul said, although there was no guessing about it. Kate was presenting in Chicago at the ALA conference on the project they’d worked on together, although admin was paying for it in her case. Paul had done more than a third of the work but still never entertained the idea that he would go. Libraries weren’t known for their excessive piles of cash, even big ones like UGA, and travel funds were reserved exclusively for the librarians and admin, not lowly assistants like himself. “The award should cover my airfare and conference registration, not enough for a hotel room, but Kate said I could stay in hers.”

“Should I be worried?” Daryl teased.

“Maybe. Who knows, if we share room we might end up cured of our depraved homosexual urges.”

“Or just make ‘em worse,” Daryl paused, “But like I said, it’s a good thing, right? Them wanting you to do stuff like this?”

Paul sighed, “I dunno. They keep getting on my case, wanting me to get a master’s degree, move up.”

“Well, why don’t you?” Daryl replied, “They pay for it, don’t they? You’re smart enough and enough of a fucking nerd, you’d be good at it.”

“I’m happy where I’m at. No stress, no responsibility. I can go home at the end of the day and forget work.”

“How stressful can being a fucking _librarian_ be?”

“Well, not very,” Paul admitted. Some of his coworkers would disagree, but it wasn’t like what they did involved life or death. He also doubted that any of his coworkers knew what it was like to nearly freeze to death in a Chicago winter because they didn’t have a place to live, or ever had to eat from a dumpster because it was either that or starve. “I like my life as it is. I like having free time to do shit with you, I don’t need to take classes on top of everything else.”

“You could just take one class at a time.”

“Wait, do you have some kind of librarian fantasy I don’t know about?” Paul said with a leer, “Because if you want to try a little role-play I can get some glasses and put my hair up in a bun.”

The tips of Daryl’s ears went pink, “Fuck off.”

“Wait, you _do_ have a librarian fantasy! I’ll break out the cardigan when we get back—“

Daryl knocked his shoulder against Paul’s own, making them both laugh. They walked in silence for a few minutes before Daryl asked, “What about your friends up there? You talk like you miss ‘em.”

Paul rubbed the back of his neck, “I doubt any would care. I kinda ditched everyone when I moved here.” He still felt guilty about it but figured it was too late to apologize. He hadn’t completely ghosted everyone, was still friends with them on MySpace and even a few who were on Facebook. But he was rarely on either, and was terrible about replying to direct emails.

Daryl shrugged, “Can’t hurt to ask.”

“I’ll think about it,” Paul said.

They didn’t talk much more after that, just looped around another block and headed back to the house. Paul was glad when they got home, he was started to feel the chill and Lou was shivering a little even with the sweater.

After they’d warmed up and had dinner Paul retreated to the computer room and logged into Facebook for the first time in weeks. He was still a little confused by it, Myspace was annoying but at least Paul had learned how to use it. He looked up at the little bar that read “status update” and typed out:

_Paul Rovia is coming to Chicago for a weekend in June. Anyone want to hang out?_

He had expected to get nothing or at best a few half-hearted replies. He wasn’t prepared for the overwhelming response he got; he had at least a dozen comments on his post when he checked Facebook the following day during his break at work. True, three of them were from Tess, which was to be expected. It made him feel uncomfortable, the same way winning an Outstanding Staff Award did.

Paul got even more uncomfortable when he saw that one of the replies was from Nick. His heart fluttered with anxiety and he closed out of Facebook without responding to any of the comments.

That night he had trouble sleeping, staring up at the ceiling and thinking of all the responses. Beside him Daryl was sprawled out on his back snoring softly, a noise he normally found comforting but instead just intensified his alertness. At around one in the morning Paul rolled out of bed and went downstairs. Lou got up from her doggie bed by the windows and followed him out, he let her because he knew she would cry and wake up Daryl if he tried to shut her up in the bedroom.

She curled up at his feet as Paul powered up the computer and logged into Facebook and started answering his friends’ comments. It took him an embarrassing long time to type out things like, “I’ll let you know more when I make firm plans”.

He was at for nearly a half hour before a little chat window popped up, letting him know that Nick Santiago was online. Paul stared at the message for a few seconds, debating with himself. He usually set his own status to “invisible”, particularly after he got together with Daryl. The majority of his contacts were guys he’d hooked up with or had been planning on hooking up with. Even when Paul had his status set on “available” he almost never saw Nick online.

Feeling a little nervous, he switched his status to available. He clicked to “open a new chat”, drummedhis fingers against the keyboard and thought about what to say. Before he could type a message from Nick popped up.

_nickname2000 says: Hey!_

_nickname2000 says: omg_

_nickname2000 says: are you really coming up here?_

_pjrovia says: Looks like._

_nickname2000 says: fuck yeah! Christ, it’s been what, two years? Three?_

_pjrovia says: too many_

_nickname2000 says: no shit_

_nickname2000 says: where are you staying? With Tess and Luke?_

_pjrovia says: Hotel where the conference is_

_nickname2000 says: Conor is reading over my shoulder, told me you have to stay with us. None of this hotel bullshit._

 

Paul studied the message, tapping his fingers against the desk and feeling annoyed at how awkward this was when it shouldn’t be.

 

_pjrovia says: I’m co-presenting so the hotel is nice. Besides I don’t think Daryl would like it._

_nickname2000 says: who tf is Daryl?_

 

Paul blinked, realizing he hadn’t changed his relationship status on Facebook, or made any kind of announcement at all that he was now in a relationship. He genuinely thought no one would care.

_pjrovia says: Oh. My boyfriend_

There was a pause of nearly a minute where Paul could see the message “nickname2000 is typing”. When Nick’s reply came he realized how wrong he’d been about no one caring about him getting a boyfriend.

 

_nickname2000 says: I’m sorry, your WHAT_

_nickname2000 says: :O are you fucking with me?_

_nickname2000 says: Paul? I can see you typing!_

_pjrovia says: no, not fucking with you. :D_

_nickname2000: Holy shit, when did you get a boyfriend?_

_pjrovia says: over the summer. We were friends first, he’s the guy I posted about, the one in the motorcycle accident_

_nickname2000: that guy? He’s your boyfriend now?????!!!_

_nickname2000 says: is your cel # the same? Can I call you?_

_pjrovia says: call the house phone, let me give you the number_

 

Paul typed their number into chat then got up to grab the cordless from the kitchen. Lou let out an irritated grumble, she had gotten settled in against his feet. She gave him a betrayed look and flopped down with a huff when he retrieved the phone then went right back into the computer room. Paul waited a little nervously for a minute or two before the phone started ringing in his hand.

“Spill,” Nick said before Paul said a word.

“Hello to you too,” Paul said, smiling a little.

“Don’t fuck with me, Paul. You’ve got a boyfriend now?”

“Um. Well, yeah,” Paul replied.

“I need a minute to process this,” Nick said, voice light and teasing, “I feel like I just got definitive proof of the loch ness monster or UFOs or something.”

Paul squirmed with embarrassment, “It’s not _that_ unbelievable.”

“Ok, so maybe I was exaggerating a bit. But you did catch me off guard. What’s motorcycle guy like?”

Embarrassment faded and warmth expanded in Paul’s chest. He realized that he’d been wanting to gush about Daryl to _someone_ who would understand how big this was for him. When they first started dating he told his co-workers, but he never really opened up to them, they didn’t know that Paul didn’t _do_ relationships.

So he started to talk, all of that stored up gushing coming out. Not too many details, a lot of it belonged just to him and Daryl. Just the outline, that they became friends, that Daryl had been closeted for almost a year, that they went camping on weekends and Paul had started riding a motorcycle, that they had a house and a dog. That he was happy.

“I can’t believe you two got a fucking dog together,” Nick said after Paul had talked at him for nearly an hour, “me and Conor didn’t get our cat until we hit the ten year mark.”

Paul laughed, “Daryl found her, she was running loose at two am when he went to the pharmacy to grab me some flu medication.”

“Stop, that’s disgusting, I’m going to fucking puke. I can’t believe you ran over a guy and are now living your best gay life with him.”

“I didn’t run him over you jackass, someone else did.”

“Did you slip that someone else a twenty first? You can tell me.”

“Nope, just got lucky.”

“Listen Paul,” Nick said, voice growing serious, “I’m so happy for you right now. I get it, if Daryl doesn’t want you to stay with us. Don’t worry about it, but we need to at least meet for drinks or something. Conor too.”

“No, definitely, that would be great,” Paul said, fidgeting a little, “Um. As to him not liking it, I’m just guessing. I haven’t told him about you guys.”

There was a long moment of silence on the other end of the line, then Nick said, “You really should, if you plan on hanging out with us. He’ll wonder why you didn’t tell him.”

“I know, I’m going to,” Paul said, shifting a little, “It’s just an awkward conversation to have. I’m the first guy he’s really been with, you know.”

“You ran a guy over and he’s some soulful redneck virgin who makes pharmacy runs for you at two in the morning. Only you, Paul.”

“I didn’t _run him over!”_

“Pfft. Whatever. Listen, the Mister went to bed awhile ago, I think I’m going to go join him. It was great talking to you.”

“You too.”

“Call me sometime, fuckhead.”

“I will. And I’ll see you in June.”

“You’d better.”

******

When Paul woke up the following morning Daryl was already awake, he could hear him moving around downstairs. Letting Lou outside. Paul groaned an buried his face in his pillow, thinking that capitalism was evil and it was bullshit that he had to go to work on a cold January morning after sleeping four hours. Eventually he got out of bed, hoping that Daryl had started coffee.

When he came downstairs he realized he wasn’t so lucky, the familiar scent of coffee was absent and the door to the computer room was open. Paul could see the glowing light from the screen, and frowned.Daryl almost never touched the computer, convinced he’d break it if he clicked on the wrong thing.

“Hey,” Paul said when he stepped into the doorway of the computer room, “What’s up?”

Daryl jumped, and when he looked at Paul he had a guilty, hangdog expression on his face. He fidgeted a minute before blurting out, “Sorry, wanted to check the weather, and you left it up…”

Paul looked over Daryl’s shoulder and saw that he was looking at Nick’s Facebook profile photo. He felt warring emotions; irritation that Daryl was snooping intentionally or not, irrational guilt for talking to Nick in the first place, and anxiety remembering Nick’s advice to just tell Daryl about everything. He also couldn’t pretend like he didn’t understand why Daryl would be put out; Nick wasn’t just handsome, he was the kind of beautiful you only saw in art museums staring at you from ancient Greek statues.

“That guy one of your friends up there?” Daryl blurted out.

“Yeah, he wanted to catch up with me. He called and we talked for a bit last night. It was nice, haven’t talked to him in a while.”

“Oh,” Daryl said, doing that fidgety thing with his fingers. It was one of his most obvious tells, and Paul knew his boyfriend was still a little bothered, but he didn’t say anything. After a few minutes Paul said he was going to make breakfast.

He scurried into the kitchen, irritated for feeling guilty and irritated that he was irritated. It wasn’t like he’d done anything wrong, and if Daryl had a problem he could use his words and talk about it.

He pushed it out of his mind and started assembling the ingredients for a simple breakfast. Eggs, toast, some sliced tomatoes. He was just warming up a bit of butter on the skillet when Daryl came into the kitchen.

“Could you start the coffee?” Paul asked him.

Daryl let out an affirmative grumble and started filling up the carafe with water. As he was switching the machine on there was a whine at the kitchen door and Daryl lunged for it.

“Forgot the damn dog, sorry,” he muttered. Lou was muddy and needed to be wiped off by the old towel they kept by the door for that purpose. Paul cracked a few eggs into a bowl and scrambled them with a fork.

“What’d you talk about? You ’n that guy?” Daryl said suddenly, as if no time had passed between Paul finding him in the computer room.

“Like I said, just catching up. He and his boyfriend wanted me to stay with them a few nights, but the hotel with Kate works better for me. Still wants to meet up, though. ”

Daryl visibly relaxed when Paul told him that Nick had a boyfriend. Part of him wanted to just leave it at that, after all Daryl had no reason to question him or be jealous over stuff that was essentially ancient history. But he couldn’t forget Nick’s advice, and warning that if he waited to say something then Daryl would wonder why. So turned toward where Daryl was still huddled by the kitchen door, took a deep breath, and said, “Look, Nick’s just a friend, and he and his boyfriend are in it for the long haul. But. Um. I think you should know that the three of us hooked up a couple of times.”

Daryl looked confused, and opened his mouth but whatever he was going to say died as understanding unfolded over his face. Paul fought the urge to explain further, there was nothing to be ashamed or guilty about, he hadn’t even _met_ Daryl yet. He felt sweat break out at his temples regardless at the way Daryl was looking at him. Finally the other man dropped his eyes and muttered, “Oh.”

Paul waited to see if he had anything more to say, then after a beat started making himself a cup of the freshly brewed coffee. He was still sweating and his heart was doing a rabbity thing in his chest.

“How many times is ‘a couple’?” Daryl asked suddenly.

Paul turned to him, “Two is usually what people mean when they say ‘a couple’.”

Daryl’s face flushed dark. His fingers tapped rapidly against the table. “So this guy called you and you’re plannin’ on going out somewhere?”

“Yeah, got a problem with that?” Paul said. Anger was starting to outweigh any guilt or embarrassment.

“What if said I did?”

“I’d ask why you had a problem.”

“You’d hafta _ask?”_

 _“_ Yeah, I would,” Paul snapped, “It’s not like I’d ever cheat on you, and you’d be a _dick_ to think I would.”

Daryl had a guilty look for a split second before his face turned sullen, “I ain’t being a dick to not like you gallivanting with your ex five hundred miles away.”

“I’m not doing any ‘gallivanting’,” Paul said, getting well and truly pissed off, “You’re the one who said I should try getting in touch with my Chicago friends and I just told you Nick isn’t my _ex_ , he’s a friend—“

“One you _fucked_ ‘couple times’, if I’d’a known that I wouldn’t’ve said anything,” Daryl snapped.

“Don’t forget his boyfriend at the same time,” Paul snarled.

“That s’posed to make it _better_?”

 _“_ I don’t fucking _know,_ Daryl. I don’t know why your pissed or jealous or what the fuck ever, I’m not a cheater and the thing with Nick and Conor happened over two years ago-“

“Two years ago?” Daryl interrupted, eyes narrowing and entire body going still, like a bloodhound that caught the scent, “Right before you moved down here?”

Paul gave a start and his heart did that rabbity thing again, of _course_ Daryl had narrowed down on that. He dropped his eyes, deflating a little, “I…why does _that_ matter?”

“Did it have anything to do with it?” Daryl asked, “You three hookin’ up?”

 _Fuck you, Dixon,_ Paul thought angrily. He hated the way Daryl could see right throughhim sometimes. “It wasn’t the only reason, or even the biggest one.” He wasn’t lying; it had been more like the final straw. Somehow he’d started getting close to people, making actual _friends._ “Why the fuck does it matter?”

“It _matters ‘_ cause you’re going to go back cozy up to this prick, how am I s’posed to know you won’t decide to move again ‘cause of him?”

Daryl’s voice broke, and when Paul looked at him he saw his boyfriend had a hurt, scared look on his face. In that moment Paul thought he could see the boy he’d once been. For a split second Paul felt only heartache before it was washed away with anger. _Paul_ wasn’t the one who tried to push Daryl away at first, hadn’t been the one to try and end things before they even begun, Daryl had no _right_ to say that to him. “Oh fuck _you,_ ” Paul said, his voice almost a shout, “Is that what you think of me? Is that what you think this,” he gestured around at the kitchen, “is? That I’m just going to throw it away for some guy I didn’t talk to for two years?”

“I don’t know what to think of you sometimes, how many guys have you even _been with—“_ his mouth snapped shut, he seemed to realize what he was saying a fraction too late.

When Paul replied there was no almost about it, he was giving a full shout, “Sorry I wasn’t waiting around for you to show up, I won’t be able to wear white when we get married and maybe next time we fuck you sh—“

At that moment Lou let out an anxious bark, startling Paul out of his tirade. Both men turned to stare at their little pup, they hadn’t heard her bark before outside the frightened little puppy noises she made that first night.

Paul realized he could smell burning butter, he hadn’t turned the stove off. He turned around and twisted the dial savagely, and muttered, “I have to get ready for work. Cook your own damn breakfast.”

******

Work seemed to drag and be over too quickly at the same time. He was still angry and didn’t want to go home, so he shot Daryl a quick text: _going to gym, don’t wait up._

An hour on the climbing wall still wasn’t enough to settle his stirred up emotions. Eventually he gave up and went home. The lights were on at the house, of course Daryl would already be home.

“Shh, down girl,” Paul said as Lou wiggled and danced in front of him in greeting. Paul patted her on the head and went to find Daryl. He found his boyfriend in the living room staring at a basketball game on TV. He shot a quick look at Paul then turned his attention back to the game.

“There’s dinner,” Daryl said, not looking at him, “Just some spaghetti, if you want it.”

“I’m not hungry. Did you walk Lou?” Paul asked.

“Yeah,” Daryl said.

Paul hated this. They were often silent when they spent time together, but it was always comfortable and warm, and because neither one had anything to say and didn’t feel the need to fight silence with bullshit chitchat. Never this awkward, deafening silence that was the result of neither one wanting to fight and afraid of saying the wrong thing.

“I’m going to bed,” Paul said, “C’mon, girl.” He patted his leg for Lou to follow him upstairs. Daryl moved, looking like he was about to say something, or get up to follow him, but in the end did neither. Paul could feel his eyes on his back as he walked up the stairs.

He let Lou jump up into the bed with him, most of the time she was banished to her dog bed on the floor under the window. The exceptions were cold nights when sex was off the table, and tonight certainly qualified. He grabbed one of his library books off the floor. A slip fell out, announcing that the book was due back on November 6. Paul made a mental note to renew it the next day and bribe his coworker into removing any fines he’d accrued.

After trying to read for half hour or so he heard the stairs creak under Daryl’s footsteps. He briefly considered turning off the reading light and pretending to be asleep but that was ridiculous even if Daryl wouldn’t have seen through it anyways. He was curled up on his side with his back to the door, Lou curled up in the space between his bent legs. He heard the floorboards creak, Daryl was standing in the doorway without speaking. After a few moments Paul heard the sounds of him unbuckling his belt and tossing his clothes into the laundry bucket. There was another beat of silence, then Paul felt the bed dip as Daryl settled in.

“Do you want me to turn off the light?” Paul asked evenly.

“’S fine,” Daryl said, voice just as even. They weren’t touching but Paul could still feel the tension in his body.

The mattress shifted again, and Paul felt Daryl’s hand against his shoulder, then a quiet, “I’m sorry.”

Paul closed his eyes and swallowed, “For what?”

“For not trusting you,” he replied, then, “I trust you. I just can’t…sometimes I still don’t understand why me.”

Paul stared unseeingly at the pages in the book in front of him. His mouth was dry, “Why do you think the thing with Nick and Conor made me want to move?”

Silence. Paul continued, “Do you think…fuck, that I had feelings for one of them?”

Daryl still didn’t answer, so Paul rolled over to face him. Daryl didn’t meet his eyes, and Paul could see the muscle in his jaw twitch. “I didn’t,” he said, then thought carefully what to say next, “I wasn’t jealous. It just made me sad, seeing the two of them together. Up close and personal like that. That I wasn’t a person who could ever do that, ever be that comfortable with anyone as they were with each other. As sure.” Paul let out a snort of unamused laughter, “Tim told me once there was a block of ice where my heart should be.”

“Tim’s a prick,” Daryl said quietly.

“He really is,” Paul agreed. He realized it wasn’t enough, so he tried to explain further, “You know, I thought about moving the morning after I kissed you the first time. And again when you asked to live together. I…god, you think I don’t get scared? That, fuck, I don’t know, your brother will get out and talk you out of being with me? That something will happen to you, that one day you’ll just be gone?”

“You don’t need to worry bout that,” Daryl said.

“Everyone leaves,” Paul said. He didn’t continue, didn’t say that people died or got placed in new foster homes or got new jobs taking care of kids in some other group home.

“What stopped you?” Daryl’s voice was a rasp,  "From movin’ those times?”

“I love you,” Paul said. As soon as the words were out he realized it was the first time he’d said it since he’d gone to Daryl’s house all those months ago.

“I love you too,” Daryl said. He sounded as shaken as Paul felt, “I ain’t going nowhere. Not ever, not unless you want me to.”

“Well,” Paul said, “I’m not going anywhere either. Look, if it bothers you that much I’ll tell Nick I won’t be able to meet with him, or tell Kate I can’t come to Chicago after all—“

Daryl shook his head, “No, I was being an asshole. I don’t…I ain’t gonna try to tell you who you can be friends with.”

“Oh. Ok,” Paul said. Then because he couldn’t help himself leaned over and kissed Daryl on the mouth. The other man was still for a moment before responding with a force Paul hadn’t been expecting. Daryl had come a long way from that first awkward encounter last summer, he could kiss Paul breathless with ease by then.

Lou squirmed at Paul’s feet, grumbling a little at the jostling she got. They pulled apart and Daryl growled out, “I’m gonna need your damn girlfriend to get out of bed. Now.”

************

Paul didn’t leave Athens for two more days. He didn’t waste those days looking for the rotted shell that had once been his boyfriend, but instead gathering up supplies and planning the route. East, up towards the Blue Ridge Mountains and across North Carolina, steering clear of Charlotte and other bigger cities.

The left at dawn, swapping out Daryl’s pickup for a Honda CRV that belonged to one of their neighbors, better gas mileage but still big enough for all his supplies. Especially after Paul got rid of a few things; after all, he would only need one sleeping bag and he could leave behind the two-person tent. Before he left Paul took one long look at the inside of their house, thinking of all the little things that reminded him of Daryl, wondering what he should take. Chaz’s head was still in the computer room gaping down at his desk, the framed menu of the Sweet Shack Barbecue was still on the wall, the magnet from their first date on the fridge. Paul didn’t even consider taking any of it with him, just took the photo of Daryl in the snow out of its frame and tucked it into his jacket pocket.

Lou sat excitedly next to him as he drove down their street for the last time, fighting the urge to look back. He wasn’t able to, at the end of the street he stopped and turned around. Their street was as trashed as it had been when they first arrived, their own house still littered with the dead.

“Ain’t nothing but a house,” Paul whispered to himself. One where nobody lived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Paul is thinking of is"The House Where Nobody Lives" by Tom Waits:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W0YxjH09TDU


	15. Daryl: Part VIII

The sun was touching the horizon and Glenn and Maggie weren’t back yet. Hershel had a brave face but his eyes were haunted. He’d aged in the month they’d been on the road, skin grey and the beginnings of a white beard coming in.

“I’ll go ’n look for ‘em,” Daryl offered, gathering up his crossbow.

“No,” Rick said, in his _this-is-not-a-democracy_ voice, “We wait for a bit. They know how to look after themselves, they might have had to hole up somewhere and wait for a herd to go by.”

Everything in Daryl cried out against that, he still felt like shit for leaving Andrea behind when the farm fell. But they’d all made an agreement to do what Rick said when he said it, so he just gave a tight nod and wandered down the road a pace, eyes glued to the path through the woods Glenn and Maggie had gone exploring earlier that day. When he was a good distance from the others he looked back over his shoulder at the group huddled by the cars. He could see that Carol was looking at him, but at that distance he couldn’t make out her facial expression. He turned his attention back into the growing dark.

“The gloaming,” Daryl murmured, “Ain’t that what you called it?” As soon as the words were out he blinked and looked back over his shoulder; settling down when he realized that he was well out of earshot. _Fuck._

The night Dale died was the night Daryl started the bad habit of talking to Paul whenever he was alone. Which was crazy, as well as the mental equivalent of picking at a scab so that it could never heal. It wasn’t like that day he fell on his own arrow like a dumbass and actually _saw_ his boyfriend clear as day; Daryl was well aware that Paul wasn’t there. That he was talking to himself, essentially. But he wanted, _needed,_ to talk to Paul after shooting Dale in the face.

Despite the times Daryl had come close to murder he had never killed anyone, not even in the frantic first few weeks on the road with Merle. Daryl hadn’t been prepared for how it would feel to watch the old man’s brains splatter in the grass, to watch his muscles go slack and his tongue protrude out of the corner of his mouth. It was an ugly feeling, even if he knew it needed to be done, that there was no hope left for Dale. After it was over Daryl wordlessly returned the Colt to Rick and retreated to the edges of Hershel’s property, where he’d been camped out away from everyone else ever since Sophia had found.

He sat on the ground, elbows against his knees and shivering, and said, “I just killed someone. Dale. Old Man Eyebrows, you know.” 

Before he could stop himself Daryl found himself telling Paul everything that had happened the past week. “We found that little girl I was tellin’ you about. Sophia. She was dead. I’m sorry,” he croaked out. Ridiculous to apologize to Paul of all people based on something a hallucination had said, but he couldn’t help it. “She was in Hershel’s barn, the old man had a whole bunch of them walkers in there. Thought they was just sick or something, could be brought back.” Daryl glanced at the tattoo on his ring finger, the crude skull grinning up at him. He remembered telling Paul that even if he died he’d come back for him. “Ain’t no comin’ back, though.” He remembered holding Carol back, remembered her screaming and collapsing into his arms when Rick shot the thing that had once been her daughter.

Daryl wiped his eyes, he’d started crying sometime during his recitation of the past week, “That’s why I did it, killed Dale. So Rick wouldn’t have to. He’s the one who shot Sophia. I couldn’t’ve done that.”

Even as he spoke the overwhelming sense of shame and guilt choked him. On some level he knew it was absurd, she’d been dead since the beginning of Daryl’s search, had probably died mere hours after Rick saw her last. There was nothing Daryl could have done; but an irrational part of him blamed himself. If he’d just looked harder, if he had just done _better,_ he would have somehow magically been able to find the real Sophia.

“I yelled at Carol about it earlier,” he admitted, even more ashamed, “Said it was her fault. One of the worst things I ever did.” He then thought of Randall, and wondered what they were going to do about him, “There’s this kid. Part of a group of bad guys tried to kill Rick’n Glenn, I tied ‘im to a chair and beat the shit outta him. To get him to talk. We was arguing about whether or not to kill him, so he couldn’t go running back to his group. Dale…he wanted to spare him, told me I was a good man, that wasn’t me, beatin’ on a kid like that.” Carol had told him something similar the day he staggered back injured after finding Sophia’s doll. Said he was every bit as good as Rick or Shane.

 _You are a good man,_ an imaginary projection of Paul whispered in his mind. Daryl snorted, “Course you’d say that. It ain’t true, though. You had terrible taste.”

_My taste in men, music, and sports is fucking flawless, Dixon._

Daryl swallowed another lump in his throat and wiped his eyes. He couldn’t remember the exact occasion but was certain he remembered Paul saying those exact words to him. Paul got pissed whenever Daryl suggested he wasn’t good enough, it was one of the few things that could spark a real fight.

He was surprised to find himself feeling calmer after saying all this shit out loud, pretending that Paul could actually hear him. It probably wasn’t a good idea in the long run, with the world the way it was cracking up would be all too easy. He shouldn’t do it again.

Over a month later and he was still talking to Paul. He thought he’d gotten over it, but the truth was he just hadn’t had much chance to be alone and start jawing. None of the group had, they’d been on the move ever since the fall of Hershel’s farm, staying in a tight unit and rarely out of sight of one another. Looking for a place to take refuge for longer than just a few nights. They were tired and exhausted and feeling the first real bites of cold. Winter would be there soon, and while winters in this part of the state were mild they sure as shit wouldn’t feel that way if they had to spend it outside.

“Rick thinks there’s a place for us somewhere,” Daryl said quietly. “I don’t know if he really believes that or something he’s saying to keep us going.” Daryl supposed it didn’t really matter much either way, they could stay on the move and keep looking or split up and take their chances on their own somewhere.

“I miss you all the time,” Daryl continued, “So much. But these people I’m with. They’re good people. You’d like them,” he thought about it for a minute and gave a little snort, “Most of ‘em, at least.” He honestly couldn’t decide whether or not Paul would like Rick, fuck _Daryl_ couldn’t decide that either. Respected him? Hell yes, but _liking_ him was a whole other story, one Daryl was still working out. As for Paul, he probably hated cops worse than Merle did. _Bullies with guns,_ he’d said more than once. “You definitely would’ve hated Shane. Rick killed him, though.” Maybe that would have been enough to get Rick on his good side.

Daryl shifted on his feet, glancing at the sinking sun and wondering where the hell Maggie and Glenn had gotten to. “You’d like Maggie,” he said confidently, “You’d like her a lot.” Paul liked women and made friends with them easier than he did other guys, “You’d’ve liked Andrea too. Bonded over how much you two hated Merle.”

Before Daryl could say any more he heard footsteps behind him. When he turned around he saw Rick was approaching, jaw tight. He came and stood next to Daryl, acknowledging him with a nod. He stared out into the growing gloom for several minutes in complete silence and finally said, “I talked to T, he said he’d keep an eye on things. We’ll just go a little ways, see what we see.”

“I’m fine on my own—“

Rick shook his head before Daryl could finish, “None of us goes anywhere alone, not right now. T’s got it, the others can help.” Even as he said it he looked over his shoulder uncertainly. Daryl understood his hesitation, leaving the group without most of the best fighters. Daryl thought it would be alright though; T could fight, despite his age Hershel was no slouch when he had a gun, Carl was a mini-Rick who had become determined to protect his mother at all costs, and Carol…fuck, Daryl didn’t know how to describe Carol.

He remembered the timid woman he met at camp months ago, remembered thinking she wouldn’t say “shit” if she had a mouthful, and wondered how he could have been so wrong. She was made of fucking _steel,_ was Carol. After Sophia died she just…picked herself up. He remembered how when he retreated to the edges of Hershel’s property, wallowing in shame and anger, how she came and said she wasn’t going to let him pull away. How she just stood there while Daryl yelled at her. If she could go on and protect the group after Sophia then Daryl had no excuse.

“Daryl?” Rick said, interrupting his train of thought. Daryl jerked to attention and nodded at him, and the two men set off in the direction Glenn and Maggie went earlier that day to scavenge for gas and food. They hadn’t gone very far when there was the sound of movement in the brush. Rick froze, and nodded at Daryl, drawing out his Colt and moving cautiously forward.

Daryl could see something, clothing and heard more rustling, then Glenn was stumbling out of the woods. The kid nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw Rick, stepping back and holding up an arm protectively back to where Maggie was walking a few paces behind. When he saw that it was Rick and Daryl he relaxed momentarily before darting his eyes around guiltily. Glenn had the shittiest poker face of anyone Daryl had ever met, his expression would have been enough to announce why he and Maggie were late even if it weren’t completely fucking obvious. There were leaves in Maggie’s hair and she was missing a button on her blouse, causing her to show so much cleavage even Daryl couldn’t help staring at first. Glenn was in a similar state of disarray, and there was a love bite on his neck beginning to darken into a bruise.

“The hell you two been?” Rick growled, lowering the Colt, “You were supposed to be back an hour ago, we’ve gotta clear out.”

Unlike Glenn, Maggie didn’t seem guilty at all, “Lost track of time.”

“We found something,” Glenn blurted out.

Rick eyed him and Maggie, “Yeah, bet you did.” He was trying to look stern but wasn’t doing a very good job. Daryl didn’t even bother trying.

“A place we can maybe stay,” Maggie said, giving Glenn a Look. Daryl recognized that look, and it made his heart hurt a little. It was a look that said, _I cannot believe you are the idiot I have chosen to love._ The answering look Glenn gave her made Daryl’s heart hurt even more, _but you did choose, and you’re stuck with me now._ Daryl looked away from the two of them, throat tight. “It’s not far, if we can hurry we can get the rest of the group there before it gets too dark.”

Rick considered it for a minute before saying, “Lead the way.”

******

The place Glenn and Maggie found was an old grist mill made of pale and weathered concrete. It was enormous, more than four stories high with a sprawling rail yard on once side and a river on the other.

“We took a look around,” Maggie said, “There’s no one here.”

“Yeah, that’s what took us so long. Really,” Glenn interjected. The kid was the worst liar Daryl had ever met.

Daryl eyed the old mill and its grounds, “What do you reckon?” he asked Rick, “Think we can fortify it?” It already had the river on one side, the train tracks could probably be used _somehow_ , and the building while old looked solid. Looked like it would stand up to a herd of walkers at the very least. 

“Maybe,” Rick mused, hands on his hips and surveying the landscape. “It’ll do for right now, at least. Let’s get the others.”

******

Inside, the mill was all open space and inky black shadows; damp and smelling of mildew and rat turds. There were massive spider webs everywhere, something they discovered when Beth stumbled into one and let out a frightened scream. Everyone whirled on her with their guns raised as she frantically scrubbed her arms and stammered out, “Nothing, just a spider, startled me—“

Hershel was by her side, brushing her arms and murmuring soothing words as sheapologized for being silly, that it just surprised her. “There’s none on you, Bethie,” Hershel said, “I looked,” he let out a warm chuckle, “You always did hate spiders.”

“Well with that noise if there was something in here they’d be headed our way by now,” Daryl said. He’d meant to be reassuring, to tell her that even if she was startled and made a racket it looked like it didn’t matter, but she cringed and looked guilty.

“I’m _sorry,”_ Beth whispered, “I didn’t—“

“We know,” Rick said, “Daryl’s right, there’s nothing in here. Let’s hunker down for the night.”

*******

Even with Rick’s words they still took shifts on guard duty while the rest them piled their motley assortment of blankets and pillows on the floor and huddled together trying to get some sleep. It had gotten cold as balls at night, real winter coming in. Most nights they didn’t want to risk a fire, just slept pressed against each other for warmth in the back of their cars or wherever they’d decided to make camp for the night. Daryl usually ended up wedged against Carol and T-Dog. He hated it; they both felt and smelled _wrong._ T was too big and bulky, Carol was closer to the right size but soft in the wrong places and slept curled against his back, something Paul knew better than to try and do. He found himself shifting restlessly, unable to avoid thinking of those cold nights on their camping trips with Paul sprawled all over him, the dog curled up at their feet. Eventually he dropped into an exhausted sleep.

In the morning they were able to get a better look at their new shelter. The entire group went from room to room and floor to floor inspecting the building. The lower level needed to be cleaned out, but wasn’t as filthy as Daryl would have expected; like it had only been closed five years instead of fifty. The upper floors were in worse shape, windows long smashed, a few bits of scattered glass on the floor. The roof had a great, yawning hole that Rick frowned at.

“I think somebody must have started restoring this place,” Hershel said thoughtfully, “Only made it one floor, before they had to give up.”

“Are we going to stay here, Dad?” Carl asked, flicking his gaze to Lori, “We can fix it up.”

“Maybe,” Rick said, wiping some sweat from his face, “Let’s take it one day at a time.”

*******

Glenn and Maggie went on supply run the following day, they were low on food in particular. The rest of the women cleaned out the lower level best they could while Rick, Daryl, Hershel, and T-Dog got on some rudimentary fortifications. Midway through the day Rick stopped working and said, “It’s too big. Too open.”

“If we had more people,” Hershel said, “it wouldn’t take much to build something—“

“But we don’t,” Rick interrupted, tapping his fingers against the Colt strapped to his side, “I don’t think this is the place for us.”

“We wanting to move on, then?” T-Dogg asked.

Rick kicked the ground in frustration, “I don’t know, not yet. We might have to.”

Glenn and Maggie returned later with a canister of gasoline, two good hunting knives, a can of peaches, some lighters, and not much else. The area had been remote and empty before the end of the world, most everything was picked clean. They had enough food on hand for a meagre dinner and even leaner breakfast the following morning.

“I’ll go out today,” Daryl said, “There’s gotta be something in these woods.”

“I’ll come with you,” Rick said, “No one goes alone, not yet.”

“I’m fine on my own—“ Daryl started to argue, but before he could Carol was pressing some food into his hands and telling him to eat up.

“Keep an eye on him,” she told Rick, “I don’t want to have to change any bandages if he falls an arrow again.”

Daryl glared at her, and she just gave him an innocent smile before turning back to serve up breakfast for everyone else. Daryl picked sullenly at his food, ears burning at the tips. “Gave me too much,” Daryl said, although his stomach grumbled in protest. He told it to shut up, he knew how to deal with hunger.

“You and Rick need to eat if you’re going out,” Carol called over her shoulder, “We need you to catch something.”

Daryl wanted to argue, it didn’t feel right eating more than the rest of the group, particularly when rations were this lean. Over the past few weeks food was given first to Lori, then to Carl, then rest of the grownups split what was left between them. He thought Carol went hungry more than she let on, sharing her portion with Lori or Beth. She was gaunt and tired, and Daryl wondered just how much of that was grief and how much was barely getting enough to eat. She never complained, though.

 _I’m gonna catch something big today,_ Daryl promised himself, _a deer or something. Something we can cook up and she can eat as much as she likes._

So resolved, he ate his food quickly, licking his fingers clean and getting ready while Rick went to talk to Lori. Daryl glanced at her, she was stretched out on her blanket staring blankly at the ceiling. Lori didn’t look pregnant, and despite the fact that she was eating more than any of them she seemed to be getting even thinner. Her skin was sallow and she had dark bags under her eyes, Daryl could see the clear outline of her skull. It was easy to imagine what she would look like as a walker, a thought that unsettledhim.

He watched them out of the corner of his eye, Lori pushing herself up to her elbows and staring solemnly at Rick, then leaning forward to say something low into his ear. Whatever it was made Rick tense up in anger, Daryl could hear his rising voice but it was still too low to make out any words. He looked around at the group awkwardly—tension had been mounting in the Grimes marriage, you’d have to be an idiot not to see it. Daryl thought most of it had to deal with Shane and all of _that._

Whatever the exact contents were of the argument they left Rick stormy-eyed and withdrawn during the hunt. Daryl glanced at him from time to time as they moved through the woods, eyes open for a trail, not that it did much good. Finally Daryl stopped and said, “If you want to stay here and wait I can circle around.” When Rick opened his mouth to argue Daryl said, “You’re making too much racket, stomping along. Scare everything within a mile off.”

Rick flushed dark, and Daryl tensed up. The man had his moments, his _“I’m in charge and if you don’t like it there’s the door”_ moments, and Daryl wondered if he was about to get one now. If so he was going to just head back to the mill, they weren’t going to catch anything that day. Finally Rick took a deep breath and nodded a little, “You’re right. This is your area.” He straightened his shoulders and looked Daryl in the eye, “I still don’t want to split up. I can be quiet, follow your lead out here.”

Daryl blinked; taken aback for a minute. At Rick deferring to him. It wasn’t the first time, back when they started the search for Sophia Rick had listened patiently while Daryl discussed how to follow a trail and what to look for. But that was before a lot of shit had happened. Before Sophia died, then Dale, then Shane, then Andrea. Before Rick’s _“this is not a democracy”_ speech.

Rick seemed to notice his hesitation, and rubbed a hand across his face. Daryl saw how _tired_ the man was, how much being in charge was draining him. That was the exact moment he realized that yes, he liked Rick Grimes. Didn’t just trust or respect him, but _liked_ him.

“Ok,” Daryl said, then, “You need to pay more attention to how you walk. Here, let me show you…”

******

They didn’t find a deer, didn’t get that burst of luck. Instead they hit the goddamned _jackpot,_ a wild boar that nearly gored Rick before Daryl took it down. When it was dead the two men stood shaking over it, grinning and gasping. The boar was young, not full grown yet, and there was probably over a hundred pounds of meat lying in front of them. They could dry out what they didn’t eat right away, it would keep for weeks.

“If we could find us some salt,” Daryl mused, sawing into the boar with his knife while Rick helped, “we could save a lot more.”

“We can look for some,” Rick said, “If we stay put for a bit, have a few days to find stuff like that.”

After basic field dressing the two men tied the carcass to a sturdy tree branch that they could balance on between them on their shoulders and headed back to the mill. Even between the two of them it was heavy as fuck, both men were sweaty and bloody and exhausted, after about an hour they had to sit the pig down and rest a minute. Daryl was too tired to talk and assumed Rick was the same, which why it took Daryl a minute to realize something was bothering him.

“Y’alright?” Daryl asked when he got his breath back.

“Yeah,” Rick said, with his jaw twitching ferociously. Daryl said nothing, just waited. Finally Rick spoke again, “Just something Lori said to me, before we left.”

“Oh?” Daryl said, not sure how to proceed. He didn’t get relationships, he’d only ended up one by a fucking miracle, and he understood straight relationships even less.

“It was about Carl, I told him to look after her while I was away. She didn’t like that; thinks he’s getting too hard.”

“Kid needs to be hard,” Daryl said, “Won’t last otherwise.”

Rick let out a frustrated noise, then, “I know that. _She_ knows that. I think it has something to do with how Shane—“ Rick cut himself off abruptly, breathing hard.

Daryl sat next to him quietly, again at a loss for words. He remembered when he first met Lori months ago, how she reflexively called Shane her “brother-in-law”. Daryl wondered if he could have killed Merle to project everyone in the group; although he supposed if Paul were still alive it wasn’t a real question. Daryl wouldn’t have hesitated, a thought that made his heart twist. Still, it gave him something to say. “When I found out how you left Merle,” Daryl said, “I wanted to kill you. Wanted to kill you for a long time after.” Rick looked startled, and Daryl dropped his eyes, struggling to get the words out. “I get it now, though. You were protecting the group, and Merle…” he waved a hand vaguely in the air. “You did the same thing with Shane, even though he was your…I’m sorry you had to do that. I don’t think I coulda, with Merle. It woulda killed me.” _Very fucking articulate, Dixon,_ he thought ruefully.

When Daryl looked at Rick the other man was staring at him white-faced, blue eyes wide. To Daryl’s alarm he almost looked like he was on the verge of tears. None fell, however. Rick just took a deep, shuddery breath and said, “Yeah. Well. I’m glad you didn’t have to.” Daryl shrugged, remembering how Rick had thanked him the morning after he shot Dale. _No reason you should do all the heavy lifting,_ Daryl said in response.

Rick had more to say. “The thing with him and Lori, I don’t…” he swallowed hard, “They thought I was dead. I know that, but it’s still…”

Daryl didn’t reply that; he remembered how insecure he used to get about the guys Paul had been with. Now he wouldn’t care if Paul had fucked everything with a dick between here and Chicago if it meant he could have him _back_. “She’s alive,” Daryl finally said, “You both are.”

“This started before then,” Rick said after several minutes of silence.

“Yeah?” Daryl asked.

“Yeah,” Rick said. Daryl waited to see if the other man would say any more than that, and finally got, “Sometimes it’s like I don’t know her. The last day before I got shot, we had this argument. Right in front of Carl, said she didn’t know if I loved her. Or if she loved me. When Carl was hurt, at Hershel’s farm, she said maybe it was better if he died, then live in a world like this. She was upset, but…” Rick stared off into the distance, throat working, “You’re right you know, we’re still alive, the three of us. That should be all that matters, but it’s _not.”_

The two men were quiet again, both lost in their own thoughts. Daryl could hear the distance the piping cry of a wood thrush, and closer by the buzz of a few flies drawn in by the scent of blood. Finally, Rick said, “Thanks for listening.”

Daryl shrugged, “S’nothing. Sorry I ain’t got no ideas for you. It’s shit all around.”

“You’re telling me. Marriage was never easy, even before the end of the world,” he gave Daryl a sideways look and then asked, “What about you?”

Daryl blinked at him in confusion, “What about me?”

“Were you married?” Rick asked quietly.

“What do you think?” Daryl shot back quickly. Without realizing he was doing it he ran his left thumb over the tattoo on his ring finger. Even if he’d decided that he liked Rick, Daryl had zero interest in discussing Paul with him, now or ever. No interest in discussing Paul with _anyone._

Rick gave him a look Daryl couldn’t read, “I don’t always know what to think about you. You keep surprising me.”

“Well no, I wasn’t married,” Daryl said gruffly. Which was the truth as far as that went, he and Paul _hadn’t_ been married. They’d talked about it, Paul said it was only a matter of time before it was legal all over the country. Less than a decade away, he said with confidence. The subject didn’t come up often, but they were both on the same page as far as it went—when it was legal then they’d go to the nearest courthouse and fill out the paperwork. No ceremony, both men would rather have their tongues nailed to the carpet then get up in front of a group of people and profess their love. Just make it official in the eyes of the law. Start referring to each other as “husband”—better than partner or boyfriend. Be each other’s official next of kin, never have to worry about being turned away from the other’s hospital room.

Or by airline personnel in the event one of them died in a plane crash.

Daryl swallowed the lump in his throat. Rick was still studying him, face thoughtful. With a great deal of effort Daryl pushed those thoughts away and said, “Lets get back, before this thing starts drawing in worse than a few flies.”

******

The sun was low and their shadows were long when they arrived back at camp. Hershel took one look at the slaughtered pig and their bloody clothes then said he’d take care of it, to go wash up.

They both gratefully turned things over to him and headed for the river, it was cold enough to freeze his balls off and there was only so much they could do without soap. Both men stripped out of their shirts, Daryl hesitating a little. Modesty was something that had faded a bit after a month on the road, but that didn’t mean Daryl liked putting his scars on display for Rick or anyone else.

Daryl kneeled by the water, using a bit of river sand to help scrub off the blood.

His eyes happened to land on Rick’s bare back, noticed beads of water trickling over the lean muscles, the way his waist tapered down into his hips.

Daryl turned away with his cheeks burning and splashed a handful of the icy water in his face, then another, and another, until he was shivering. To his relief Rick didn’t seem to have noticed, and Daryl gathered up his shirt, nodded to Rick and headed toward the mill, Carol could help him clean it. His hands were trembling and his throat was a little dry.

That evening the group feasted on the boar and some wild greens Carol and Beth had found, all of them laughing and an unusual lightness surrounding them. Carol was giving him genuine smiles, probably the first real ones he’d seen since Sophia had died. Rick occasionally caught his eye as well, looking proud and satisfied. Each time he did Daryl felt a confused mix of shame and guilt. The latter was stronger, he felt… _disloyal_ to Paul. Which was ridiculous, even if Paul was alive (and oh god, would rememberinghe wasn’t ever stop hurting?) all Daryl had done was _look_. All he had done was noticed that Rick was, objectively speaking, a good looking guy. Paul wouldn’t have minded, he didn’t get jealous, didn’t expect Daryl to stop _noticing_ other guys. Not that he ever did, really. Daryl could accept that he wasn’t a normal guy, that most guys, gay and straight, looked at and fantasized about people other than their partners.

Daryl never could, he supposed that part of it was the fact he never allowed himself to fantasize or look at all before Paul came into his life. If he were to find himself checking out another guy he would _choke_ on the waves of disgust he felt. It was hard to turn off, the fact that he was able to do it for Paul was a miracle in of itself. At any rate no other guy could really compare as far as Daryl was concerned.

Until he felt himself noticing Rick Grimes. Handsome Rick with his curls and blue eyes, with a smaller frame than Daryl but still powerful, masculine. Then there was just the way Rick was, the kind of guy Daryl could never come close to being.

Fuck. He was glad Rick was married, even if he was having problems with Lori. Stopped Daryl from making a fool of himself at least.

But it was like it had uncovered something inside of him that he thought had died with the words _there were no survivors._ He missed countless things about Paul _;_ missed telling him about his day, missed going on their adventures, missed listening to him sing in the shower, missed waking up next him. Until the day he noticed just how handsome Rick was missing _sex—_ the raw physical part of it—was low on that list. In fact it barely registered.

It was registering now, in a big way.

That night Daryl laid down between Carol and T and tried to sleep, but his mind decided to play a dang highlight reel of their sex life. The last time the fucked, right before Paul got on an airplane to Chicago. The time Daryl came home and found Paul lounging barefoot on the couch sipping wine with his shirt open and eyes dark with desire. Saying, _Take your clothes off and get on your knees,_ without even a hello. The trip down to Saint Pete’s beach, swimming in the warm green ocean, then Paul jerking him off under the water all the while talking about how most shark attacks occurred at a depth of three feet and they were attracted by splashing. Slow, sleepy sex on a cold winter’s morning when campus was closed due to the weather. Rough makeup sex after a fight when they were still pissed off at each other.

Beside him Carol shifted, and Daryl forced himself to take in even, measured breaths. _Think of something else,_ he told himself. _Anything. Hershel’s saggy old man balls._

It didn’t work, before he knew it he was thinking back to over three years ago, when his libido really woke up for the first time in twenty years along with his heart. When just touching Paul’s skin set him off like a damned rocket.

************

What Daryl remembered most were Paul’s eyes when he said, _I think I love you._ His eyes, and the way his voice sounded. Young and vulnerable and _scared_. He sounded even more scared saying the words than Daryl did hearing them. He imagined this was how a deer felt after he’d wounded it and run it to ground. It was too much, and Daryl did what he always did when he was afraid—lashed out. He didn’t like to think about the things he’d spat into Paul’s face, although he could remember every word. So did Paul; he never said anything but there were times when they fought that Daryl would see him cringe and for a split second his eyes looked just as scared as they’d been on that first day.

The self-loathing Daryl felt when he realized just how badly he’d hurt Paul outweighed any he ever felt just for being gay. When he followed the other man outside he had no clue what he was going to do or say, Daryl just didn’t want him to leave. When they came back inside, both soaked from the rain, Daryl was still at a loss. He paced restlessly, trying to find the words to explain. To explain that it was ok for guys like Paul to be gay, but not guys like Daryl. Things weren’t that simple; Paul was tough enough to take anything the world threw at him but Daryl wasn’t. That he deserved someone better. Someone who wasn’t too much of a coward to just… _kiss_ him.

Daryl was never sure where the courage to end up kissing him anyway came from, just grateful that it came and kept him going all the way through their first time. Which Daryl thought barely counted; he’d lasted all of two seconds and Paul wasn’t even able to get him out of his clothes first. Daryl had been shaking he was so caught between excitement and fear. Part of him was irrationally expecting Merle or their Daddy to bust in and ask what the fuck Daryl thought he was doing. Not that Daryl would have been able to stop even if that impossible scenario happened, his body felt outside his own control, a freight train with no brakes smashing through everything in its past. Daryl had no idea what to do or where to touch, clumsily groping everything within reach, then Paul was undoing his flies and Paul’s hand was on his dick and all rational and irrational thoughts were gone.

Paul came to him on a Saturday afternoon and didn’t leave until Monday evening, calling in sick to work without a trace of guilt. They barely left Daryl’s bed the entire time, just to eat or use the john. Any hope Daryl might have had of locking this thing back up in a box and repressing it was gone after that weekend. Having Paul Rovia naked in his bed for days smashed through any remaining flimsy denials of who he was and what he wanted. Hell, it fucking _nuked_ them. By the time Paul kissed him goodbye Monday evening Daryl knew there would be no going back.

Two miserable days passed before he was able to go to Athens again; he had to work graveyard shift Tuesday and Wednesday night at the Citgo. It was a shit job and the pay was even _more_ shit, but it was a steady bit of work every week and Daryl _needed_ it. He still didn’t trust the bloodsucker or that he’d eventually get the insurance money. At the very least graveyard shift was usually easy work, and for those two nights in particular he was grateful to be alone. Just like it had been two decades prior, after the guy with the scorpion tattoo, Daryl felt like he had what he’d done written on his skin for anyone to see. Not an entirely crazy thought, Paul had left a few love bites on his neck, Daryl wore his collar up and hoped no one said anything. He caught glimpses of them in the mirror when he used the john, his fingers would be drawn to them irresistibly, touching them in wonder and hardly believing that his memories were real and not some fevered dream he had.

On the other hand, grateful as he was to be alone, there was nothing to take his mind off of just remembering the weekend. Crystal clear memories of Paul licking his way down Daryl’s chest and stomach to his groin came to him whenever his mind wandered. He walked around with a semi straining against his zipper for most of his shift.

After a night of that he came home at six in morning, still feeling wide awake and needing… _something._ Paul had told him to call when he got off work if he wasn’t too tired, said he’d be waking up at around the same time Daryl would be getting in. Daryl picked his up his phone stared at it for a good five minutes before he pushed in the number he’d memorized ages ago.

It rang long enough that Daryl thought Paul was either still asleep or in the shower or just didn’t feel like answering. Just when he was about to hang uphe heard Paul’s voice, low and husky with sleep, “H’lo?”

“Hi,” Daryl said, nervously fidgeting with the phone cord, “Sorry, thought you’d be awake. Oh, it’s Daryl—“

His babbling was interrupted by a sleepy chuckle, “I know it’s you, your number came up. Only reason I answered the phone. Don’t worry, my alarm’s about to go off, and this is a better way to wake up.”

“Oh,” Daryl said, fiddling with the cord again, trying to think what to say, annoyed at how difficult this was. He almost never talked to people on the phone, nobody but Paul and Merle had much reason to call him. His phone conversations with Paul were usually limited to telling the other man if he was planning on coming to Athens that weekend. He didn’t know if he could tell Paul the truth face-to-face, much less over the phone. Truths like, _I can’t stop thinking about you. At work it was so much I almost went into the john and jerked off. I washed the sheets but I can still smell you in my bed. I don’t know how I can wait another day before I can touch you again. I’m going crazy, is this normal, will it ever stop or will it get worse, I love you._ “You sleep alright?” he said, wincing at how shaky his voice was.

“Not really,” Paul said, “kept wishing you were here with me,” that low chuckle, “Still do, I can think of a few ways you could help wake me up.” His voice was playful, and the vivid memory came to Daryl of waking up Monday morning with Paul’s mouth already on his dick.

“Oh,” Daryl said, mouth dry and voice more of a squeak. Fuck, what was he supposed to _do,_ what was he supposed to say? He thought of Paul on the other end of the line, wondered if he slept naked when he was alone, wondered if he should ask.

“You can help me wake up over the phone if you want,” Paul said, voice low and husky in a way that went straight to Daryl’s groin. His hand clenched the phone cord

“Um,” he said, cheeks growing hot and sweat breaking out on his palms at the thought of Paul getting off on the other end of the line while he listened. He wasn’t sure if embarrassment or arousal would kill him first. “Wouldn’t know what to say,” he stammered out, then, “Sorry.”

“You don’t have to say anything, just knowing you’re listening is enough,” Paul yawned, “But maybe some other time. I’d probably end up late.”

“Sorry,” Daryl said again, still feeling overwrought with nerves and excitement, “You get ready, ok? Sorry I called so early, I just, I wanted,” he swallowed hard. He wasn’t sure what he wanted, maybe just to hear the other man’s voice. Maybe to put the image in his head of Paul waking up in bed, naked and sleep warm, smiling at his voice.

“I’m glad you did,” Paul said, sounding truly alert and awake for the first, “You can call tonight or tomorrow if you want. Or both.”

“I will,” Daryl said, and meant it. Awkward conversation or not just hearing the sound of Paul’s voice made Daryl’s heart feel warm and full and light. They said a few more words to each then made their goodbyes.

He wasn’t able to call that night, but he did call Thursday morning. It was a little easier, because their conversation involved working out when Daryl should come down later. Most of him just wanted to jump into the car and drive down right away, but Paul had to work and wouldn’t be there anyway.

“Get some rest,” Paul said firmly, “I’ll be home at five, any time after that you feel like showing up is good with me.”

Daryl tried to follow his advice, but sleep was difficult. After four hours he woke up and glanced at the clock—a little past noon, he had a few hours before he needed to head out. Two incredibly _long_ hours.

On the drive down Daryl was torn between the urge to push shitty old Buick he was still driving as fast as it could go and the urge to drive as slowly and carefully as possible. He could just imagine blowing out a tire, or getting creamed by another truck, or some pig pulling him over for speeding then finding a joint or worse while searching the car; Daryl had gone through it several times but was still paranoid, he did not trust Merle’s buddy.

He was twitchy and on edge the entire ride, telling himself he as being ridiculous. Hands shaking like a damn addict, he needed to play it cool. He knew absolutely nothing about how to be someone’s boyfriend (fuck, Daryl had a fucking _boyfriend_ , how the fuck had it happened) but he was pretty sure you didn’t want to come across as desperate, even if you were. So he’d play it cool, when he got to Paul’s he would kiss him, ask if he wanted to go out to dinner, and then after…

Despite everything they’d done that weekend Daryl still got hot and flush with the thought that they were going to have sex later. _Probably_ going to have sex later, Paul had to work all day and might be too tired for it. They’d kiss at least, Daryl knew that much. It still felt like a dream, memories of the weekend flooded his mind, making him sweat and breathe rapidly. After an eternity he was pulling onto Paul’s street and parking his car. After he killed the engine he needed to take a few minutes to gather himself, to check how he looked in the mirror, still nothing remarkable but he’d done the best he could with what he had. He grabbed the ancient canvas bag that had a few changes of clothes out of the back seat and headed toward Paul’s apartment.

The walk to Paul’s door, one he’d made countless times, seemed like a fantastical trek, each step intensifying the thought, _I’m going to kiss him. Put my hands on him. We’ll have sex later. Probably have sex later. Because we’re boyfriends now._ His throat was dry when he knocked on the door and waited, fidgeting nervously. Part of him expected for the door not to open, or for Paul to come out and say he’d made a mistake and decided he didn’t want Daryl after all.

After a wait that was probably less than a minute but felt ten times as long, Paul opened the door. He was wearing a soft greyhenley with the buttons at the top undone revealing his collar bones, the sleeves pushed up past his elbows. Paul’s shirt was fitted enough Daryl could see the faint outline of his nipples, and flushed at the fleeting thought of, _I had them in my mouth this weekend, it made him squirm and gasp._ Paul must have showered recently, his hair was wavy and Daryl could smell the clean scent of soap, he was hit with the memory of how that hair felt in his hands, how Paul liked to have it pulled when they kissed.

“Hi-“ Daryl started to say when Paul grabbed him by the front of his shirt and pulled him inside. Daryl stumbled a little, heart slamming in his chest and the canvas bag falling out of his hand. Then Paul was winding his arms around Daryl’s neck and tugging him down for a kiss. Any plans Daryl had about playing it cool vanished like a puff of smoke, he returned Paul’s kiss with complete eagerness, barely noticing and not caring that the door was still open. Hehadn’t get over just _kissing,_ how good it was. The slide of Paul’s lips and tongue over his own, the little breaths the other man made, the way pressed his whole body up against him, fingers tangling in his hair, the startled gasp he made when Daryl grabbed him back and briefly lifted him off his feet.

Paul’s arms tightened around him, when his feet were back on the ground he surged forward and pushed Daryl until he could feel the half open door against his back,kept pushing, using Daryl’s own body to swing it shut then pin him against it.

Then Paul was fumbling with Daryl’s belt, jerking his shirt up and undoing the zip of his jeans then pushing them down. Paul pulled away from Daryl’s mouth, met his eyes with an intensity that was electric, then slid gracefully to his knees in front of Daryl, never breaking eye contact. Daryl’s hands hung loosely at his sides, and Paul grabbed one and placed it on the back of his head. He pressed the other against his cheek, Daryl could feel his rough beard against his fingertips. Paul closed his eyes, nuzzling Daryl’s palm and licking his fingers. The hand cradling the back of his head spasmed involuntarily, fingers tugging at his hair. A little smile curled on Paul’s lips, eyes flicking open and locking eyes with Daryl. His attention shifted to where Daryl’s dick was trying to punch its way through his briefs. Paul gave a little smile again, cupping Daryl with his palm. Paul leaned forward and started mouthing the bulge in Daryl’s briefs, breath hot, wet tongue rasping over the cloth and Daryl heard, “Paul, please,” come out of his mouth, earning another lazy lick through the cotton. Daryl’s hand tightened in the other man’s hair and his hips jerked forward free of his conscious control, need bubbling up from his groin and flooding his entire body.

Paul met his eyes and tugged his briefs down to mid thigh, so Daryl was standing there in the doorway of Paul’s apartment bare-assed with his dick in Paul’s hand feeling half crazy with want. “Please,” he said again, voice sounding high and whiny. Paul smiled and gave him one long lick from base to tip, using the flat of his tongue before delicately tracing the head with just the tip. When Paul stopped fucking around and took him all the way in his mouth Daryl shuddered and his head fell back, banging against the closed door.

“Oh _god,_ ” Daryl choked out, fighting to keep still, his hips seemed to have a mind of their own. He lost the battle when Paul grabbed him by the ass with both hands and jerked him forward. “ _Fuck,”_ Daryl groaned, throwing a hand against the wall for support. He gazed down in Paul’s face in awe, hardly believing that that was _his_ dick sliding in and out the other man’s mouth, it didn’t feel _real._ Paul was too beautiful on his knees like that, full lips flushed red, the shadows of his eyelashes on his cheek. It seemed impossible that sight was tied with the sensation racing through his nervous system, the heat of Paul’s throat and wetness of his tongue, the gentle pressure of suction and the softness of his lips.

It didn’t take long, in minutes Daryl was groaning out nonsense as he came in Paul’s mouth. He heard the other man making a gagging noise but Paul didn’t flinch, he held Daryl’s dick in his mouth and swallowed it all down. As Daryl stared down at him he thought if he tried to move he’d fall over. After a minute Paul finally pulled off him and pressed a kiss against his stomach. “Hi,” he said.

“Hi,” Daryl said back. His knees were shaking a little, and when Paul got to his feet to kiss him Daryl just slumped over against him. He thought he must look ridiculous, pants around his ankles, dick softening and bare ass sticking out. He didn’t care, he probably wouldn’t care if the door was still opened and they were drawing in a crowd. All that mattered was the slow slide of Paul’s tongue against his own.

They stood their making out in the doorway like horny teenagers for an unknown amount of time before Daryl realized that Paul hadn’t gotten off yet, he should be reciprocating. He groped his hand down the other man’s waist and palmed his dick, making him hiss and jerk his mouth away.

“What do you want me to do,” Daryl said, feeling Paul’s dick swell in his hand.

“I’m fine, you don’t have to do any-“

“I want to,” Daryl said. That was the only thing about their weekend together Daryl hadn’t liked; Paul was too careful with him. Content to just get him off and not have Daryl do anything back. Everything “fine” or “ok” or “you don’t have to.” It made Daryl feel inadequate, he thought of all fuckheads like the bloodsucker Paul must have been with and got possessive and defensive on top of that. Those guys probably knew what to do to make Paul come, probably didn’t need reassurance while they did it. He shifted their position so he had Paul pressed up against the wall, then nearly tripped because his pants were still down around his ankles. Paul laughed, sounding a little breathless.

“Here, come on,” Paul said, tugging his hand as Daryl kicked his boots and jeans off. He led Daryl into his bedroom and he was hit with the memory of…was it two weeks ago? Two and a half? Paul drunk out of his mind and pressing boozy kisses against Daryl’s mouth, Daryl running away in fear. He remembered how _badly_ he wanted to shove Paul onto the bed, to climb on top of him and kiss him.

 _I can do that now_ , he thought as he and Paul stumbled into the bedroom. Daryl’s dick wouldn’t be ready to go for another good bit of time but damnit if he didn’t want to still do just that, so he grabbed Paul and just slung him down on the mattress, earning a surprised gasp from the other man. Daryl leaned over him and kissed him, felt Paul tugging at the hem of his shirt and let him pull it off over his head, tensing and relaxing momentarily when Paul slid his hands down his bare back. Paul knew what was there, he’d seen everything that weekend and Daryl _refused_ to be bothered by it. At least not then, not with the other man pinned beneath him hot and wriggling.

He pulled up enough so they could get Paul’s clothes off, feeling a drowsy hum of excitement stir in his belly. He still wasn’t over the sight of Paul naked, all compact muscle dusted with dark hair on his narrow chest leading down to his groin, his dick flush and hard against his belly.

The sight of it made Daryl lean over clumsily and take it in his mouth, not as practiced or skilled as Paul had been earlier, just slobbering all over him and not able to fit more than the tip in his mouth without gagging. He did this for the first time a few days ago and he still had no idea what the fuck he was doing, just that how excited it made him and how it made Paul groan and grab his hair and the sheets and anything else within reach.

Daryl wasn’t sure how long he knelt there sucking before Paul was pounding his shoulder with a fist and groaning, “I’m close, I’m close, _Daryl—“_

The last time Daryl had been so lost in what he was doing he hadn’t registered Paul’s warning until bitter and unpleasant tasting semen was flooding into his mouth, making him gag and spit it out. He was prepared for it this time, this time he recognized the noise Paul made right before he came and pulled off just in time, leaning back so he could watch Paul squeeze his eyes shut and arch his neck back, every muscle sharply defined and beautiful.

Afterward they kissed until they were interrupted by Daryl’s stomach growling. “Oh shit,” Paul said, “You haven’t eaten, I’m sorry.”

“I’m fine,” Daryl said, even though he was fucking starving. Food had fallen low on his list of priorities at the current moment.

“I could use something to eat too,” Paul said, lips curving into a little smile, “I can make us something or order us pizza.”

“Mmmm,” Daryl grumbled, “Don’t care.” Whichever option let them lay in bed kissing and touching without interruption was the one he preferred. Paul seemed to agree, and settled for pizza, only leaving the bed to wrap himself up in a sheet and stumble toward the door without a trace of shame when his bell rang. They ate it in bed then Paul made them brush their teeth before any kissing started up again.

The next day while Paul was at work Daryl took a long, meandering walk through the neighborhood and beyond. There were too many dang students where Paul lived, swarming all over the place and driving like assholes. Buildings too close together. Farther away from the University and downtown the neighborhoods were quieter, more land and fences between houses. Still closer than Daryl would be happiest with, back in Sedalia his closest neighbor was half a mile down the road. Livable, though. A small sacrifice to make for—

Daryl savagely cut that line of thought off as soon as it came. This was all still too new to start thinking like that, to start thinking of the next few months or next few _years_ or the entire rest of his life. He was being an idiot, just drunk on an excess of physical pleasure. Still, the idea had planted itself in the back of his mind, to grow roots and dig in.

******

Saturday came, when Daryl woke up Paul was still asleep against his chest and not scrambling out of bed to get to work on time. Daryl wrapped his arms around him, nuzzling his hair and almost purring in satisfaction.

“Your breath smells like someone died,” Paul murmured sleepily. Daryl felt the other man’s hand slide down his waist to his dick, fingers wrapping around it loosely.

“Oh, fuck you,” Daryl grumbled, but obediently snagged the tin of Altoids off the nightstand Paul had left their for that purpose several mornings ago. Paul was finicky about things like that, Daryl thought the only reason he didn’t take it personally was the other man applied the same standards to himself even if Daryl didn’t give a fuck either way.

“Mmmm. Are you offering? Because I’d really like that,” Paul said, then gave Daryl a squeeze, “I’ve been thinking about it all week.”

When Daryl’s mind put together what Paul was suggesting pure, animal excitement erupted in his body and he inhaled sharply, swallowing his mint and nearly choking. After that initial surge he was back to confusion, bewildered that Paul had offered. Heat coiled restlessly in his belly as he tried to clarify, “You’re talking about, err, you mean…y’know…” Daryl was too embarrassed to _say_ it.

“I’m talking about buttfucking, to be clear,” Paul said, voice tinged with amusement.

“Oh,” Daryl said, “that’s what I thought.” He fidgeted, he wasn’t really sure what the correct protocol was for when two men did that. He’d assumed it was the sort of thing you…drew straws for, or something. Something you only did as a favor, or to be fair. His own sexual experience was limited even with women, plus he didn’t watch much in the way of porn and never had. He’d _seen_ anal before, with a man and the woman, the girl looked like she was in agony the whole time and Daryl couldn’t imagine enjoying doing something like that to the guy he _loved_. Couldn’t imagine the guy he loved asking for him to.

“Daryl?” Paul said, interrupting his thoughts, “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.” Like it was a favor Daryl would be doing for _him._

“Um. I…you like that?” Daryl finally stammered.

The corner of Paul’s lip twitched, “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t. Dumbass.”

“I ain’t never done that before…”

Paul’s lip twitched again, “I kinda figured you hadn’t. But we don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”

Daryl thought it over. The rest of him being ready was debatable, but his dick had already made its decision. It seemed to like the idea just fine, it was ready and rarin’ to go, a fact that was becoming more and more obvious with every passing second. “Yeah, yeah ok. That’s good.”

Paul studied him, face serious, “You sure?”

Daryl swallowed and nodded, then blurted out, “Just…just need you to tell me what to do, is all.” As soon as the words were out he felt a fresh, dizzying surge of arousal at the thought of Paul giving him _orders._ Paul’s eyes were dark and Daryl thought he liked that idea too.

“Ok,” Paul said, then leaned forward and kissed him like he was trying to eat Daryl alive. Daryl wrapped his arms around him, thrusting his hips and enjoying the warmth and friction. Paul let out a little gasp andwriggled out of Daryl’s grip. He rolled to his side and started fumbling around in the drawer of his nightstand, emerging with a box of rubbers that he tossed at Daryl’s chest while continuing to root around in the drawer, muttering, “Where’s the fucking lube, fucking fuckity fuck—“

“In the sheets,” Daryl blurted out. He was laying motionless and staring at the muscles of Paul’s back, following the column of his spine down to his butt and thighs.

“Duh, fuck, I forgot,” Paul said, groping around in the sheets and emerging with the little bottle triumphantly. He glanced at the box of rubbers still on Daryl’s chest and lifted a wry eyebrow, “Do you need me to help with that—“

Daryl jerked to attention, realizing he was still just staring with his mouth slack like a fucking rube. “No, I got it. Don’t know much but I know how to put on a dang rubber,” he said quickly, clawing at the box, realizing that it was new and hadn’t been opened yet. He froze for a minute, mind having difficulty analyzing why that would be significant enough to _notice._ Paul needed to go out and get new stuff, Daryl thought even the bottle of lube they’d been using was new.

 _“_ I didn’t bring guys here, you know,” Paul said, voice soft and a little vulnerable, “Always liked being able to leave if I wanted.”

“Oh,” Daryl said. Their eyes met for a beat then he continued tearing at the box, finally getting it open and fishing out a rubber before he was defeated. His hands were too shaky and sweaty to get a grip on the little foil packet, he wanted to scream in frustration and nerves before Paul plucked it out of his hands. He had it open and rolled on Daryl’s dick before embarrassment could really set in.

When they were both ready Daryl had a moment of consciousness for not knowing what to do, wondering if he should take charge, just bend Paul over and start fucking. Before he could ask or do anything Paul put his hands against Daryl’s chest and pushed him flat on his back against the mattress then climbed on top of him, straddling his hips. Daryl’s dick was pinned between them, hot and hard and aching and he let out a yelp when Paul ground down against him. He thrust his hips up reflexively, and Paul reached behind and took him in hand, holding him steady.

“Ready?” he asked, giving him a gentle squeeze. Daryl’s only answer was to shudder and grab his thighs. It was enough; Paul slowly lowered himself down on his dick, going an inch at a time, letting out breathy little whimpers that culminated in a full on groan once Daryl was all the way inside. Daryl’s entire body had gone rigid, muscles locking him into place and constricting his lungs so that no matter how hard he gasped he couldn’t get in enough air. He had to bite down on his lip hard enough to taste blood when Paul started to actually _move,_ bracing his hands against Daryl’s chest and rocking gently back and forth. It was too much, too intense, the fingers of one hand dug into Paul’s thigh while his other hand groped wildly over his head until he could grip on the bed’s headrail and hold on for dear fucking life.

“Hey,” Paul said, going still, “You doing ok down there?”

Daryl blinked up at him then opened his mouth to say something that would convey this was literally the greatest moment of his entire life but all that came out was a high-pitched little whine so he settled for giving a jerky nod. Paul studied him for a brief second before smiling a little and starting moving again.

After that Daryl was overwhelmed by sensation, not just the feel of Paul moving up and down his dick but the way the muscles in his thighs felt beneath Daryl’s palms, the groans he was making, the smell of his sweat and the taste of his mouth whenever he leaned down to kiss him. When Daryl was able to gather enough of himself to start pushing into him in sharp little thrusts Paul’s thighs clamped down against Daryl’s waist and he arched his neck back, gasping out a torrent of low words, “Oh fuck, oh fuck, fuck, don’t stop, that’s it, you feel so good, don’t stop—“

When it was over Daryl just laid there staring unseeingly at the ceiling. He felt like never moving again, felt like if Paul wasn’t laying against his chest holding him down he would have just floated away. After a few minutes Paul rolled off him, swung his legs over the edge of the bed, tried to stand, stumbled, and had to grab the mattress to avoid falling on his ass. Daryl stirred to life, concern piercing the dreamy post-coital haze he was in, “Hey, y’alright?”

Paul was fucking _giggling_ , face flushed dark red, hair wild and sticking to his sweaty face. “I’m _fantastic,”_ he was able to get out between little gasps of laughter, “just need a second for my knees to stop feeling like spaghetti.”

A few minutes later as Paul was cleaning him off with a damp rag Daryl murmured, “I didn’t know two guys could do it like that.”

Paul went still, stared at him for a beat then burst out laughing, “I thought that was kinda what we gays were known for.”

Daryl was too drowsy and sated to feel more than a fleeting jab self-consciousness, only brief warmth in his cheeks and even briefer lowering his eyes, “Face-to-face, I mean.”

Paul chuckled, dropped the rag to the floor by the bed then leaned over him, propped up on one elbow, “Oh Daryl. You have no _idea._ I can’t wait to show you.”

************

After several hours’ tossing and turning Daryl slipped out from between Carol and T-Dog. Hershel was on watch, and he gave Daryl a questioning look when he saw him stumble toward outside doors. “Need a piss,” he muttered over his shoulder.

The moon was bright enough to cast shadows over the deserted rail yard and make the river glitter. Clear as day he could hear Paul’s voice, singing in the shower behind him as Daryl shaved and brushed his teeth in preparation for work. One of his nerd rock songs, _September’s coming soon…I’m pining for the moon…and what if their were two side by side in orbit…_

 _“_ Fuck,” Daryl said quietly, rubbing his face. When he got up he had some half-formed idea of just jerking off or something but knew it would be impossible. Thinking of Paul hurt too much, so did trying _not_ to think of him. “Damnit, Paul.”

_My plan worked. You know that first week I was trying to fuck you so hard you wouldn’t run off. Ruin you for anyone else._

Daryl snorted, “You didn’t need to go to the trouble. The kiss was enough.” He said the last bit grudgingly; he was thinking of the drunken kiss Paul gave him weeks before they slept with each other the first time. “It counted, hope you’re fucking happy.”

He could imagine how smug Paul’s face would look if he could hear that admission. Paul could be the most obnoxious son of a bitch in the world when he was proved right, and never let Daryl forget it. “Fuck,” he said again, shivering in the cold night air. He stood watching the reflection of the moon on the river for several minutes before heading back inside. The cold had calmed him a bit, and there was no sense worrying Hershel or Carol if she woke up without him there.


	16. Paul: Part VIII

Paul crept to the front of the van as slowly as he possibly could. He could see dead faces pressed against the windows on the driver and passenger sides, and beyond them even more. There were scores of them, pushing and shoving and clawing mindlessly against the glass and scraping their nails against the outside of the van. If the walkers had even a fraction of intelligence left then Paul and Lou could have been fucked, but even the simple act of making a fist to pound the glass until it shattered was beyond their capabilities. They sure as fuck could sense movement though, because despite how slow and careful Paul was his presence called a ripple of increased agitation in the horde surrounding the van. He could hear Lou whining from the back, without him to hold her she was unable to keep quiet.

“Fuck it,” Paul said, abandoning the idea of going slow. He lunged forward and snagged his iPod from the passenger seat, jerking it free from the car charger before scrambling into the back of the van. Lou was all over him as soon as he settled down, trying to crawl into his lap and shivering. Paul petted her with hands shaking just as hard. She stared up into his face, and he whispered, “Sorry. Sorry, girl. I’m just going to go crazy if I have to listen to them for much longer. They can’t get in.”  The van was rocking a little as the surrounding horde pushed against it. “They’ll leave eventually,” Paul said, voice shaking. He didn't know if he believed that or not. Lou made a low noise in her throat that wasn’t quite a bark, and Paul squeezed her and told her to hush. “They can’t get in,” he repeated. He glanced over at the Glock by his side. Three bullets left. That was in total, he’d run out of ammunition for Daryl’s rifles days ago. Not enough to fight his way free if the walkers actually managed to break through the glass. “They can’t get in,” he told Lou, “And if they do they won’t get us.”

The walkers snarled and moaned. Paul fumbled with the iPod he had stupidly risked riling up the herd to retrieve. Slid the earbuds in and powered it on, running his thumb over the click wheel as he went through his music collection, the titles of the songs blurring together. The moans of the dead drilled into his skull and choosing a song seemed like too much effort so he just selected the “shuffle play” option. After a beat the music started in his ears, an incongruously uptempo guitar riff then,

 

_“I am the passenger, and I ride and I ride_

_I ride through the city’s backsides_

_I see the stars come out of the skies_

_Yeah they’re bright in a hollow sky_

_And they look so good tonight…”_

 

Paul squeezed his eyes shut and leaned back against the side of the van. It wasn’t possible to turn the music up loud enough to drown out the cacophony of the dead, not with the flimsy earbuds, and probably not even with his expensive noise cancelling Bose headphones that he’d lost on the plane with the rest of his carryon luggage. Just as well, if something changed outside he wanted to be alerted. But the music was loud enough to distract him, loud enough to give him something to focus on and keep him from screaming.

They’d been traveling steadily north and east since they left Athens over a week ago, crossing the border into North Carolina the previous morning. It had taken a long time for them to get this far, looping back around on obscure mountain roads and trying to dodge the dead. Even some of the more desolate backroads were clogged, people trying to flee the monsters swarming them from all sides.

That was how he’d gotten in his current predicament. He’d stopped to scavenge for gas on a stretch of blocked road, parking the van and inspecting the cars while Lou trotted at his side, tongue lolling out. As far as she was concerned these past few weeks were a grand adventure, car rides _every day_ and walks with no leashes. Watching her kept Paul’s spirits up, and as he searched the stopped cars he occasionally tossed a stick she’d brought him so she could chase after it.

They wandered farther from the van then Paul realized, and when he tossed the stick again Lou started to chase it then froze, staring off into the distance. The fur on back of her spine was sticking straight up and she started growling.

The herd that swept around the bend of the road was the biggest one Paul had seen so far. It came upon them with a swiftness Paul could hardly believe and he was forced to drop the supplies he’d gathered in order to run all out for the van. They barely made it inside before they were surrounded, when Paul climbed behind the steering wheel and tried to drive off there were too many; he backed up and ended up running down a few but was forced to stop out of fear he’d get stuck. Lou barked savagely at the walkers crowded against the passenger window, ignoring his cries for her to shut up. He had to drag her into the back of the van and hold her until she calmed down enough. Until they both calmed down enough.

Paul was glad he had swapped the CRV with an old Ford panel van. The back benches behind the driver’s seat had been taken out, he had the entire cargo area to stretch out every night and rest. The gas mileage was shit in comparison but the shelter it provided outweighed that, he spent the first night in the CRV barely able to sleep with those big, vulnerable windows surrounding him. The van was better, the only windows were in front and so high off the ground even though they were surrounded and it was possible the walkers could break the glass climbing inside was another story. _They can’t get us,_ he told himself again. He and Lou just needed to stay quiet and wait them out, something had to distract them eventually. They had barely made a dent in the supplies Daryl had bought so they had plenty of food and water, enough to last them for another week at least. Figuring out what to do with piss and shit when the time came would be an issue he decided not worry or think about until the time came.

Paul shivered, and it took him a few beats to realize it was due to cold rather than shock or fear. The sweat he’d worked up running back to the van had soaked through his clothes and now that the adrenaline from fear was fading he was freezing. Every day and every mile north they traveled was colder than the one before. They were also going higher up into the mountains, by Paul’s reckoning they were only twenty miles or so away from Asheville. That very morning when they woke up there was the white feathering of frost on the van’s windows. Still shivering a little he reflected that it was better than being too hot, when he wanted to sleep he could curl up with Lou in his sleeping bag and stay warm enough. He glanced at the dead faces pressed against the windows and knew sleep wouldn’t be coming any time soon. Instead he gently untangled himself from Lou so he could fetch Daryl’s jacket from where he’d tossed it behind the front seat.

Paul had bought the jacket for Daryl a few Christmases ago—soft black leather lined with fleece, just the thing for riding when the weather started getting chilly. When Daryl wore it the jacket was fitted and accentuated his body, the broad shoulders and narrow waist. It was too big for Paul but he’d taken it instead of one his own, telling himself it was just because it was warmer. But as he slid the jacket on in the back of a van surrounded by the dead Paul could admit that the main reason was because it still smelled like Daryl. He pulled the collar up and inhaled a mixture of tobacco and leather and Old Spice aftershave, if he closed his eyes he could imagine that his boyfriend’s arms were around him. Imagine that this was a camping trip and they were curled up in their tent enjoying the quiet and stillness of nature. It calmed him and made his heart ache at the same time.

 _Wasn’t cold when we came up here,_ Paul thought to himself. They’d gone up to Asheville a few years back, not an anniversary trip but just a long weekend to escape the heat. It was late August and one of the hottest on record; with temperatures reaching triple digits for a week straight. It kept them cooped up in the house as effectively as the occasional rainy and cold weeks in the winter did, heat sapping their energy and making going outside for longer than it took to walk to a car unbearable. Even their standard outdoor activity for hot days—sitting in the shade in the back yard sipping on sweet tea— was too miserable. When Paul checked the weather and saw that they were going to get another week of that he told Daryl they were getting the hell out of there for at least part of the week. After an a few hours on google Paul was able to find a cabin for rent at Lake Lure near Asheville, one that came with a dock down into the water and a pontoon boat. It would be hot up there as well but at least they’d have a lake and mountain breezes.

It was so hot that they took the interstate for the most direct route instead of their usually meandering path through back country roads and on top of that drove Paul’s car instead of riding the bikes, windows rolled up and blasting the air conditioning. Lou stretched out in the back seat with her nose pressed against the window, watching the cars pass by.

As soon as they got to the cabin they pulled on swimming trunks, filled up the cooler, and practically ran down to their rented boat. Paul didn’t know much in the way of boats, all he could tell was this one was older than God. Still, it looked well taken care of, big enough to seat six and with a bright yellow inner tube strapped to one side. It took some coaxing to get Lou onboard at first, she’d never been on a boat before and was skeptical. Especially when Paul strapped on the little doggie life vest he’d found in the storage beneath the seats. Once she got on she stood confused for a few moments at the floor moving beneath her, cringing down in fright when Daryl revved the engine to life. Thankfully there wasn’t a form of transportation that Lou had tried and didn’t love—whether it was the sidecar of Paul’s bike or the back of the truck or a car. Once they got moving she raced from one end of the boat to the other, wiggling all over with excitement. She finally settled on the benches in front next to Paul, standing up and letting her tongue flap in the breeze. It was perfect, the lake was surrounded by lush blue mountains and even during high summer not too crowded, just a few boats like their own scattered across the water.

After about half an hour of aimless cruising they reached part of the lake away from other boaters and Daryl killed the engine. The two men sat in contented silence, enjoying the gentle swell of the lake. 

“Glad I was able to talk you into this,” Paul said finally.

Daryl snorted, “Don’t recall you talking me into nothing. You told me we’s going and if my boss said shit about taking time off then shoot him.”

“Well, then I’m glad you’re whipped and do everything I say.”

“Fuck you,” Daryl said cheerfully. He got up from the captain’s chair and rooted around in the cooler before emerging with two cans of beer. He brought one over to Paul and sat down next to him, stretching his feet out in front of him and sighing with contentment.

“You want to try that thing?” Daryl said, gesturing at the bright yellow tube strapped to the side of the boat.

“Hell yeah,” Paul said, getting to his feet and fishing out a life vest from the stowage up front. When they picked up their keys at the rental office the clerk went over the rules for the usage of the boat, any violation would result in fines up to one thousand dollars. Paul’s eyes glazed over midway through the lecture but he was able to gather that using the tube without a life vest was the some serious crime they could commit out on the water.

A few minutes later Paul was clinging to the handles of the tube for dear life as he was dragged across the lake, realizing too late this was payback for the whole “whipped” comment. Daryl cranked the rickety old boat’s engine as fast as it would go, weaving it in tight s-curves until Paul lost his grip on the tube and went flying, feeling like a skipping stone bounced across the surface of the water. He surfaced and treaded water, watching Daryl slow the boat down and come back for him, the motor making a low _chug-chug_ noise. Despite that noise Paul could hear Daryl laughing from well away. 

“You fucking dick,” Paul called out when Daryl pulled the boat beside him and put the engine in neutral.

“Shoulda taken a picture, it was hilarious,” Daryl said, unrepentant. Lou was standing on the edge of the boat staring at Paul anxiously. She disapproved of this tubing nonsense, during Paul’s entire ride she was poised at the back of the boat watching him and pacing anxiously. As Paul swam to the ladder on the side of the boat she crowded up to him, licking the lake water off his face as he hauled himself up out of the water. Paul shooed her away, stripping out his own life vest and grabbing a towel. He smacked the back of Daryl’s head as he walked past the captain’s chair, which only made his boyfriend laugh.

“Get up, it’s your turn,” Paul said darkly.

******

They were on the lake until dinner time, watching the sun dip beneath the mountains and bathing the lake in fiery oranges and reds. They had more beers at dinner, enough that Paul was able to easily convince Daryl to not only do a little night swimming but that it would be ok for him to take his shirt off. Daryl had worn a shirt all day on the boat; he now had a bit of a farmer’s tan. Paul took a moment to admire him as best he could in the dim light; farmer’s tan and all shirtless Daryl was a treasured sight. It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen it all before, and in much better light. More that this was _almost_ a public place, and the rare setting made the whole thing seem brand new.

Daryl ducked his head when he caught Paul’s look then without any warning turned and did a flying leap off the end of the dock, hitting the water with a massive splash. Paul raced after him.

“Shit, it’s cold,” Paul said, shivering. The water was cool enough earlier in the day before the sunset and he was regretting the decision to jump in.

“Pussy. Thought all Southerners were weak who panic if the temperature drops below eighty—“

Paul splashed him, which just made Daryl laugh. “Mmm,” he grumbled when Paul was done, “C’mere.”

Paul obeyed, floating over to Daryl’s arms and wrapping his arms around his neck. Daryl’s skin was warm even with the cold water and Paul rested his face against the other man’s shoulder, pressing a kiss against his neck. _That_ made Daryl shiver where cold water had failed, and Paul’s lips curved into a smile. He felt utterly content and peaceful, floating in the water supported by Daryl and listening to the faint splashing of waves hitting the dock.

“I love you,” Daryl murmured quietly, making Paul raise his head in surprise. He couldn’t remember the last time either one of them bothered to say that. It always seemed both unnecessary to state such a basic fact as well as too important to just say casually. Like it was a magic spell that would wear off if it was used too much or acknowledged.

“I love you too,” Paul said just as quietly before returning his head to Daryl’s shoulder.

“I am, you know,” Daryl continued in that quiet voice, “whipped.”

Paul snorted, “Bullshit. If you were whipped I could stop you from using empty beer cans as ashtrays. In fact, I command you to quit smoking altogether. Oh, and stop bitching whenever I want to watch soccer or hockey.”

“Mmmm,” Daryl grumbled, “you gotta point.” Paul felt his fingertips trail down his spine. It made him shiver, made him kiss Daryl’s neck and shoulder again. “I just meant,” Daryl continued. “I like making you happy, is all.”

“You do,” Paul said. Then, because the conversation was getting dangerously mushy and sentimental, he quipped, “Most of the time. When you’re not trying to drown me in a lake.”

Daryl didn’t take the bait. “You make me happy too, you don’t even need to do anything. Just be you.”

Paul nipped his shoulder, “I need you to stop now. Fuck, and you call _me_ a maudlin drunk.”

“Ain’t drunk,” Daryl said, but he was quiet after that, just floating in the water. Paul stared dreamily up at the stars, swatches of them blocked out by black mountains. The moon wasn’t quite full, more like three quarters and low in the sky. Paul closed his eyes and drifted, enjoying the feeling of Daryl warm skin against his own.

*************

Years later in the back of the van Paul thought of that night. _You made me happy just by being yourself too,_ Paul thought, _I should have told you. I should have told you every day. You already knew but I should have told you._

The adrenaline from his run and terror was fading, leaving him exhausted. Along with his memories, the music, and Lou resting against his side he started to doze off. Not in true, deep sleep but a hazy twilight in between sleep and wakefulness, half in dreams that chased him into the waking world.

At one point he jerked awake, saw the faces of the dead still pressed against the window, unsure if it was a nightmare before exhaustion dragged him back down. A cold arm slid around his shoulders, icy fingers digging into his thigh. He opened his eyes and there was a corpse next to him, the flesh of its lower face ripped away. Its eyes were the empty white that all the dead had, but even with all that he recognized Daryl’s face.

The cold fingers tightened their grip, and its jaw snapped open and closed, teeth clacking together. It was moaning, but not the toneless rasp of the dead, trying to form words. “ _Came…back…for…you…”_

There was a scream trapped in Paul’s throat, but he couldn’t move or speak, pinned down. The husk that had once been his boyfriend leaned in, bare teeth against his face in a grotesque parody of a kiss, then licking a warm tongue over his face and whining, finally a soft yip.

Paul jerked fully awake, a hoarse ghost of a real scream falling out of his mouth. He flailed around, hands coming into contact with warm fur.

“Fucking hell, girl,” Paul choked out as the last of the dream faded and he realized where he was. It was dark outside, the windows were black and empty. It took a few minutes for Paul’s sleep addled brain to realize that the herd was gone. Relief washed over him, he scrambled forward to the driver’s seat, stopping himself as he realized that if he took off in the dark either the lights would draw the herd back on him. He had to wait until morning. His iPod had died at some point, powering on for a second only to show a little icon of an empty battery before going black. He had the external pack but didn’t want to waste his batteries, now that it was quiet he could try to get some real sleep.

He settled back into the cargo space to wait, stretching out on his sleeping bag. Despite his exhaustion sleep eluded him, every time he felt himself drifting off he would jerk awake from the twisted memory of a walker with Daryl’s ruined face.

Eventually the sun rose and Paul was able to get moving again.

******

The next day Paul killed a person for the first time.

It happened when he stopped in Chimney Rock for gas and supplies. He didn’t see it coming, the village was abandoned but for a handful of walkers. Besides, even before the end of the world Chimney Rock barely deserved even the title of “village”; Main Street—another thing that barely deserved the title as it was the only street— consisted of about a dozen shops that sold kitschy souvenirs to tourists. One sold jewelry “handcrafted by genuine Native Americans”, another local jams honeys, still another advertised simply “unique gifts.” The windows were smashed and the remains of what Paul supposed were once said unique gifts strewn about in the street. Paul moved past these shops without slowing down, he would check them later if nothing panned out. At the end of the street was a faded yellow building labeled “General Store” and Paul slowed the van to a stop in front of it.

“Stay here, girl,” Paul said when Lou tried to follow him out. He rolled her window down just a crack so she could stick her nose out and watch him. She immediately gave a warning bark, a walker was stumbling out of one of the shops. It was a fresh-looking corpse that had once been a pot-bellied man with thinning hair. Paul rushed forward and swung his axe, spinning it in his hands to increase the speed and slamming it against the walker’s temple. Skulls were hard and thick and Paul had discovered to his dismay that if he didn’t hit a walker in the right place with enough force the ax would be just as likely to bounce off the hard bone. He’d judged the force correctly, the walker’s skull split down one side and it went down with its brains spilling out. Paul shook off the worst of the blood and bone from the axe, gave Lou a little wave, and headed inside the store.

He expected it to be ransacked and he wasn’t wrong, but after a few minutes’ scrounging he hit the motherfucking _jackpot—_ three cans of Deep Woods Off, the bug spray alone was worth the trip into the village. He loaded them into his pack, humming a little. He prepared to make one last sweep of the shop then move on when he was jolted by the sound of Lou barking again. Forcing himself to stay calm he darted to the shattered windows expecting to see walkers, they were one of the few things that could get a real bark from her. What he actually saw made his blood run cold. 

There were four of them, all of them armed, fanned across the street. One of them was peering at Lou through the passenger window, tapping on the glass and laughing as she barked and clawed at the glass in an effort to get him. As Paul watched one of the men in the gestured at the General Store.

Paul ducked down from the window, feeling sick. He could creep out the back, wait to brain them with the axe when they came inside looking for him. If they looked for him at all, they could just take his supplies from the van and shoot Lou if she tried to stop them.

That made up his mind. Praying that these men weren’t hostile, or at the very least reasonable, Paul gathered himself and called out, “Sorry about my dog! She’s friendly, are you?”

There was a scuffling and burst of voices from outside. After a few minutes a voice called out, “We’re armed, friend!”

“Yeah, I can see that!” Paul shot back, “I’m gonna come out now. I’d appreciate if you didn’t shoot.”

“Come out nice and easy with your hands up’n we won’t,” the same voice replied.

Paul took a deep breath and said another prayer, walking outside slowly with his hands raised. As soon as he got a good look at the four men he knew he’d made a mistake, a very _big_ mistake.

Their leader was a scrawny guy of about sixty with eyes the same steel grey as his hair and a mouth where smirks came easily. They didn’t look alike but he made Paul think immediately of Merle Dixon sneering at him from behind the glass at Clark County jail visiting station. The man had the same rough but _intelligent_ cruelty on his face as Merle did. Like his brother Merle was a lot smarter than he appeared at first glance, and Paul thought this guy was too.

Paul kept his hands raised. An old memory came to him from when he was fifteen and about to go before a judge for stealing or fighting or some other type of his teen delinquent bullshit. Paul’s harried social worker gave him an exasperated look and said, _Kid, they’ll go a lot easier on you if you can at least_ pretend _to have blood instead of ice water in your veins._ A good lesson, one he remembered well into adulthood. The one advantage of his size and youthful appearance was that no one took him seriously as a threat at first glance.

So when he said, “Don’t shoot!” he made sure his voice was a few octaves higher than normal and his eyes were wide. His fear wasn’t exactly feigned--they had guns and he didn’t since he'd left the Glock with its three bullets in the van, and while Lou’s barking seemed to amuse them at the moment they had the look of men who wouldn’t hesitate to shoot a dog out of sheer meanness.

The leader of the group raised his eyebrows in an exaggerated expression of astonishment, “Why, we got no reason to shoot you. Do we?”

Paul shook his head, “No. I’m just passing through. I’ll be on my way, won’t bother you. I didn’t know anyone was here.”

“No need to just hurry on off,” the man said, smirking mouth twitching. He lowered his gun and gave a friendly smile, “I’m Jimmy, that’s Adam, Tiny, and Hoyt.” He gestured at each of his three companions in turn. Adam was a weaselly looking guy with a mustache and a mullet under his trucker, Tiny was over six feet and well-muscled, and Hoyt was gawky ginger with freckles and narrow, piggy eyes.

“Hi,” Paul said, eying the other three men. Adam was the one who kept rapping his knuckles against the window of the van and laughing at Lou’s impotent fury. Tiny stood near the rear of the van, his gun resting against his shoulder and staring vacantly down the empty street. Hoyt stood just behind Jimmy’s shoulder. He was smirking too even if his mouth wasn’t quite built for it. He looked to be the youngest of the entire group, he could have easily been one of Paul’s students at work. Again he said, “I’m not looking for trouble.”

“Well, we ain’t neither,” Jimmy said. After a pause he asked, “Got a camp nearby?”

Paul shook his head, “Passing through. On my way to DC.”

“What’s in DC?” Jimmy asked. He’d lowered his gun to his side, but looked more than ready to use it.

“Friends,” Paul replied, “Least I hope so. They were headed that way, with a convoy of soldiers, may’ve even passed through here.” It would have been out of their way but fuck knew how far they would have to detour on their way out of Kentucky.

“That’s nice, you got people. Won’t try and stop you. It’s just us four, there were more of us earlier but…” Jimmy shrugged, “shit happens.”

“It does,” Paul agreed.

“You alone?” Jimmy asked.

Paul thought about bluffing, but didn’t think it would do much good. “I’m on my own.”

“That’s a big van for one guy and his dog. What you need a van that big for, got anything back there worth having?”

“Look,” Paul said, holding up the keys in one hand, “I’ve got supplies in back of the van. You can have all of it, just let me get my dog out first. Please.”

Jimmy gave a condescending little laugh. “Don’t you worry, we’ll be taking all of that. As for the dog, we ain’t seen one of those in… _ages._ What d’you reckon, Tiny?”

Adam was still tapping the glass and laughing at Lou’s freakout so didn't bother answering, while Tiny just shrugged, “It’s a cute doggie. Plus she’s got some meat on her bones, case food runs out.”

Adam laughed as though he’d never heard anything as hilarious. Hoyt laughed even as he insisted, “Aw man, can’t eat no dog.”

Paul held his breath, trying to stay calm.

“Oh, don’t look like that,” Jimmy said, to Paul. “We’ll let you have your dog, no worries about that, just don’t be a dick or anything. What else have you got? On you, I mean.”

Paul slung the pack off his shoulders and held it out to Jimmy. _Just breathe. Try and act like there’s blood instead of ice water in your veins._ Jimmy handed it absently to Hoyt, who started pawing through it immediately.

 _“_ That’s a nice axe,” Jimmy continued.

Paul hesitated, glancing at the walker he’d killed earlier lying in the middle of the street. “I need something, you know. To protect myself. You’ve got guns, you don’t need to worry about—“

Jimmy stepped forward and rapped his knuckles against Paul’s forehead, startling him into taking a step back, “Oooh, we don’t need to _worry_ about you? Well, good to know. But we could use an axe, and yours is a nice one.”

He could still hear Lou’s muffled barking coming from inside the van. Paul slowly handed over the axe, handle first. Jimmy gave a lazy smile and swung it experimentally. Paul felt every muscle tense up in anticipation of having to dodge it if Jimmy decided to plant it in his forehead. But he just handed it to Tiny who had materialized by his side.

“Your knife is nice too, but mine’s alright,” Jimmy said, lowering his hand to a large hunting knife strapped to his thigh. “What do you reckon, boys?”

There was a bored murmur from Tiny and Adam, and a grunt from Hoyt who was still digging through Paul’s pack. Something made him pause and fish something out, raising it to eye level for a better look. “Who is this guy?” Hoyt asked.

Paul’s heart jerked. Hoyt was holding up the photo of Daryl in the snow, and Paul realized with a nasty jolt he had forgotten that he started keeping it in the pack so in case he needed to make a run for it he could find it easily. How the fuck could he have forgotten something like that?

 _Blood instead of ice water,_ he reminded himself. “My brother,” Paul lied after a second’s hesitation where he considered telling them the truth. There was a certain breed of homophobe that would never be able to see a gay man as a serious threat, even when getting an ass beating from said gay man. If Paul wanted to look helpless that would be a surefire way of doing it, but there was another breed of homophobe that would be triggered into a murderous rage just being in the _presence_ of a gay man. Paul wasn’t sure which category his new friends fell under, so he went with “brother” over the truth. “He’s dead, it’s the only picture I have of him,” Paul continued. He did not have to feign the slight crack in his voice.

“He don’t look like you,” Hoyt said, sauntering over and holding the photo up by Paul’s face. “What d’you think, Jimmy?”

“Please,” Paul said, “Can I have it back?”

Hoyt smiled and held the photo out towards him. Paul swallowed, the guy had the mean look some of the older boys used to get at Mcreary House before they pulled some bullshit like asking if Paul wanted his faggy book back then throwing it out the nearest window, or offering Paul the only free seat at dinner only to kick the chair out from under him. He knew this would be the same, but he couldn’t help himself from cautiously reached out.

Hoyt jerked the photo back with a laugh while giving Paul a shove in the chest that sent him staggering back a few steps, crashing right into Jimmy. He felt the man’s hands clamp down on his biceps, holding Paul back.

Hoyt gave him that mean little smile again. He had teeth too big for his mouth and puffy gums. Paul knew what the ginger bastard was going to do but was still unable to stop himself from shouting out, “ _No!”_ the moment Hoyt tore the picture in half. Then , still laughing, he ripped those pieces into halves themselves and tossed them to the ground. 

“Whoopsie!” Hoyt said.

“Aw, no reason to be such a dick Hoyt, we know you’d miss your big brother if you had one. Look, you’ve hurt his feelings!” Jimmy said.

Tiny and Adam were chuckling. Paul barely heard them, he was staring at pieces of the only fucking photo he had left of Daryl. He didn’t grab more when he left the house, the photo was one of the handful Daryl allowed him to take at all, and one of the only _two_ that Daryl consented to be printed out and put on display. The other one was on Paul’s desk at work, he hadn’t bothered to go get it when he left Athens, why hadn’t he in case something happened to this one.

Paul felt something in his chest grow hard and cold. At the same time he heard the distant echo of Adam say, “Incoming! Time to test out that new axe, Tiny!” Paul raised his eyes. Four walkers were shuffling out from behind one of the shops, drawn in by Paul’s shout or Lou’s barking or just passing through.

Tiny was striding up to them, laughing and wiggling his butt around with the axe raised, looking a man up at bat.

Jimmy was behind Paul, fingers clamped painfully around his biceps.

Paul didn’t think, didn’t weigh or plan any of his actions ahead of time.

He jabbed his elbows back one after the other, slamming Jimmy in the gut. At the same time he snapped his head back, smashing him in the mouth. Normally a move like that was followed by breaking free then running, but instead Paul spun around and grabbed the knife strapped to Jimmy’ thigh and plunged it up into the soft meat under his jaw.

Paul did it so fast it was over and Jimmy was stumbling back with blood spraying from his neck before even _Paul_ registered just what it was he was doing, much less the other three men.

Paul was already lunging forward as Hoyt stood there frozen and gaping at him in shock. He got off a shot that went wild, the kid didn’t know how to fucking shoot, he didn’t know how to grip a gun properly to compensate for the recoil, no one had shown him how.

Daryl had shown Paul how, he’d been insistent even if Paul hated guns and aiming and shooting didn’t come to him naturally. He _made_ Paul practice regularly, out in the woods on their camping trips, dragged him to the gun range when they were at home. Daryl would adjust Paul’s grip on the Glock, ignoring his double double entendres about having a “good grip” in other areas, and growled for him to squeeze the trigger all gentle like _._ Paul taking aim and firing again and again at a paper target shaped like a racist caricature of Osama Bin Laden until that height of redneck wit had a cluster of holes on its forehead. Daryl was never satisfied, made him practice regularly, saying he didn’t trust Paul’s “damn ninja bullshit.”

It was the damn ninja bullshit that enabled Paul to grab Hoyt’s wrist and twist just so to jerk the gun free, to get off a wild shot of his own that still hit the other man in the abdomen. Hoyt stared down at the gaping wound in his stomach in shock, mumbling out “Oh. _Gosh._ ”

Paul had been just as fast about shooting Hoyt as he had been about Jimmy. He got a better grip on the gun and kicked the kid back at the same time spinning up to shoot Adam.

Paul had been fast but not so fast that Adam would not have been able to shoot him had he not been distracted by Tiny fighting the walkers. Tiny himself trying to swing the axe at the walkers while fumbling for the gun at his belt, he would have been better to just throw the axe to the side. Adam was springing back in shock while at the same time raising his own weapon.

The gun roared in Paul’s hands and Adam’s face caved in, blood cascading down his front. Paul had another brief flash of memory, only this one was about a thousand times more intense than the one of Daryl at the gun range.

_The police officer covers his eyes as he walks Paul out of the house don’t look son don’t look but he still gets a glimpse of the pool of blood and a white hand stretched out beseechingly there’s the flash of a camera and the officer is guiding Paul away don’t look son don’t look Boo is whimpering in his arms and Paul squeezes him tighter—_

Paul jerked free of that memory and fired at Tiny. He missed, blasting a hole into the arm of one of the approaching walkers. It was enough, though. Tiny had instinctively tried to drop when Paul fired the gun and the walkers were on him. His screams were shrill and piercing, he tried to throw one walker off as one got a hold of him from behind, digging its nails into skin and tearing. Paul was trembling, he willed his hand to stay still as he fired again. He hit Tiny in the chest and the big man slumped over into the arms of the ravenous walkers.

On the ground Hoyt was moaning and clutching his bloody abdomen. The walkers were snarling and there was the nauseating, wet sound of flesh tearing as they feasted. Lou was still barking. Paul listened for a few minutes before taking a few lurching steps over to Hoyt. As he walked past him Hoyt grabbed at his leg feebly. “Help…me,” he whimpered. Blood was bubbling out of his mouth. Paul ignored him, eyes sweeping over the ground.

The shredded pieces of Daryl’s picture had gotten jostled a bit during the ensuing scuffle but Paul was able to find most of them, including the most important piece—a jagged wedge the one where Daryl’s face was visible. Paul stared at the tattered scraps in his hands, jaw working. He carefully tucked them in his pocket, next time he went scavenging he’d try and find some scotch tape to piece it together.

Then he got up to loot the bodies. He retrieved the knife from Jimmy’ skull, wiped the blood off of it, then strapped it to his own thigh before digging the keys out of the man’s pocket.

He took the remaining weapons from the bodies of the men he’d killed, retrieved his own pack and his axe. The three walkers didn’t acknowledge him at all, too busy shoving hunks of meat into their mouths.

When Paul got into the van he was attacked by Lou, she was whining and licking his face over and over again, burying her nose in his neck and crying. He patted her for a few minutes until she calmed down enough he could situate himself behind the wheel and start the engine. As he drove away he glanced in the rearview mirror. Hoyt was crawling weakly across the road, leaving a bloody trail in his wake. As Paul watched Jimmy's body started to stir, pushing itself up into a sitting position.

Paul jerked his eyes back to the road and started driving.

******

He was able to make it an hour before he had to pull over and have a breakdown.

Paul had never killed anyone in his life. He’d come close in few street fights in his teens and later during the escape at Fort Henry. In these instances he’d been fully prepared to do it but hadn’t  actually had to kill anyone.

Lou gave a soft little whine and shifted closer. He patted her distractedly, his hands were still trembling. “Those men I killed. I didn’t even have to think about it,” he whispered. It scared the shit out of him, how easily he’d done it. Her ears perked up at the sound of his voice and her tail thumped against the leather seat.

“I miss your daddy,” Paul said without conscious thought. When he realized what he’d said he felt an insane peal of laughter try and make its way out of his throat.Daryl _hated_ when Paul referred to either of them as Lou’s “Daddy.” Not as much as he hated the term “fur baby” but close, so of course Paul used both as often as he could to rile him up.

Paul let his head fall back against the headrest of his seat and squeezed his eyes shut. “I miss him _so much.”_

It was a long time before Paul was able to get moving again, still heading north, still heading east. He no longer really believed he’d be able to find Carmen and Mateo if they were even alive. He wasn’t really sure if he thought there would be anything left in Washington itself, some kind of a refuge and last line of defense. It was just somewhere to go, something to do, a way to put some miles in between him and the house in Athens where nobody lived. Maybe when he got to the ocean he’d find a boat and be able to get even farther away.

 

 


	17. Daryl: Part IX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm kind of flying through Daryl's side of the story. I want to mention again that if I didn't take the time to write it events happened the same way as they did in canon, or close enough that it doesn't make a different. Final thing: the timeline between their two stories doesn't match up since I'm fast forwarding through about six season's worth of canon.

It was raining and had been for hours as Daryl and Michonne picked their way through Tyrone. A steady, relentless rain that was almost painful as it hit Daryl’s back and shoulders. The streets were flooded with water up to their ankles and the long-abandoned yards were muddy swamps. The rain had come on suddenly and was far worse then they could have predicted, they should have turned back toward the prison when they saw the first cloud. But they’d had what looked like their first lead in weeks and didn’t want to give in.

It had been a month since they’d driven the Governor from the prison, a month since he and Michonne started their search. They combed the area for miles around the prison looking for any sign of the man. Their first lead was when _somebody_ returned to Woodbury and torched the place, and they had a good idea of who that was. Twenty miles down the road they got another lead, what looked like ol’ Philip’s truck abandoned by the side of the road. That was weeks ago, and until the day when the rain started coming down they hadn’t found even the faintest whiff of the man. Daryl didn’t want to admit it to Michonne but he thought the trail had gone cold.

Until that day, when they found a jeep that looked like it had come from the National Guard outpost the Governor’s people raided. A slender lead, but it was _something,_ and investigating the town seemed worth the risk. The rain and heavy concentration of walkers changed Daryl’s mind within an hour. There were far more walkers than would be expected in a town this size, and Daryl wondered just what drew them in. Silver lining was the rain confused the dead and made sneaking past them easier, but on the flip side the driving rain limited the vision of the living almost as completely.

Which was how they ended up driven through what was once a pretty little neighborhood of picket fences and shiny new houses and was now a shattered wreck like the rest of the world. It would be dark soon, they were exhausted, and they needed a place to hole up. One of the houses if they could find one not completely overrun. Before they could really investigate they stumbled through an abandoned back yard that had a massive oak tree with a tree house nestled up in the sturdy branches.

“Here?” Daryl said, keeping his voice as low as he could and still able to be heard over the wind and rain. It was the first thing either of them had said since the morning. Michonne just gave a short nod.

They stumbled through the muddy yard, the grass was so overgrown Daryl almost tripped over a tire the foot of the tree, must have once been a swing. He _did_ step on something that made a loud crunch, when he looked down he saw shards of porcelain from what looked like a child’s tea set beneath his boot. He swallowed and examined the trunk of the tree—no ladder, just a few boards nailed to the bark, first one at about chest level. He turned to Michonne and wordlessly laced his fingers together, making a step. She placed her right boot into his cupped hands then he boosted her up. She hauled herself the rest of the way, her strong arms bared from beneath the poncho. She was an incredibly powerful woman, after their weeks on the road Daryl had come to a healthy respect for just her raw physical strength. Daryl scanned the backyard one last time before he followed Michonne, jumping up to grab the first board then pulling himself up.

The treehouse was old but sturdy, built with a lot of love for a child who was almost certainly dead by now. A small door leading inside had faint traces of yellow paint in a circle, looked like it had once been a sun. The inside of the treehouse was leaky and damp but Michonne stripped out of her poncho and hung it across the ceiling, making a makeshift tent that keep the worst of it out. Daryl laid his own poncho—a brown monstrosity that had once been a horse blanket—across the floor and stretched out on it, every muscle crying out in exhaustion.

Michonne dug around in his pack without needing to ask, it was routine by now. She fished out a can of chicken soup, poured it in the little makeshift camping bowl, then pulled out some of Daryl’s homemade venison jerky and tossed it in to soak for a bit. The resulting meal was disgusting but heartier than soup alone, and soaking the jerky for a bit softened it up, made it easier to chew.

They ate in silence, listening to the rain hammer on the roof of the treehouse and against Michonne’s poncho. When they were finished they both cleaned up a bit before Daryl returned to his horse blanket. After a few minutes Michonne stretched out beside him with a sigh, not touching but close enough to share a little warmth. It was summer and it wasn’t too cold, even with the wet, but it was still nice.

They lay quietly in the dark little treehouse, and Daryl could tell from Michonne’s breathing she was awake as well. There was nothing unusual about this for either of them. Even when one of them was on watch the other would have difficulty falling asleep, half the time not sleeping at all or just in snatches. Daryl supposed that like him she had a lot of things to think about, and during the day while they searched they were too busy to do much thinking. Despite the frequency of the sleepless nights they didn’t discuss what was on their minds, for Daryl it was because he was so wrapped up in the misery of the past few months he could only focus on himself. Losing Lori. Losing T-Dog. Almost losing Hershel and Carol, and in the latter’s case for several days there had been no _almost_ about it. He’d fucking _mourned_ her in those days; and part of him still couldn’t believe he’d found her. She’d been alive, he’d picked her up and carried her to safety, the happiest he’d been since before the recording told him there were no survivors.

Then he found Merle.

Whenever he remembered what happened the grief and anger he felt overwhelmed him. He wished he could scream _why, why, why,_ in his brother’s face. He didn’t know if he was angrier at Merle for getting killed right when he first started to be the man Daryl thought he could be, a _good_ man; or at the Governor for killing him in the first place.

Or himself, for being relieved underneath all the grief and anger. It changed often, sometimes he felt all those emotions at the same time and it was enough to drive anyone crazy. The day he and Michonne first set out to hunt the Governor was one of those times. After a long day they took shelter in the attic of an abandoned farmhouse, awkwardly staring at the other. He and Michonne hadn’t talked much and many of their previous interactions, while not exactly hostile, weren’t exactly friendly either.

“Something I’ve been meaning to tell you,” she finally said, “About Merle. I was going to, but shit kept happening, and I couldn’t seem to catch you alone.”

Daryl’s breath caught and he couldn’t meet her eyes. He knew that in the end Merle had done the right thing, had let Michonne go, just like Rick had done the right thing and made the call that no matter what they wouldn’t be handing her over to begin with.

She waited for him to answer and when he remained silent she said, “He wanted me to tell you something. Wanted me to tell that he was sorry about Jesus. Said you’d know what that meant. Said he was sorrier about that more than anything, and should have told you a long time ago.”

Even if Daryl had the words he couldn’t speak them. His throat closed up and hot tears spilled down his cheeks as soon as he processed Merle’s final message to him. _Goddamnit, Merle. Why. Fucking_ why. _You could have been so much fucking better than you was._ An impossible scenario came to him of the world never ending. Merle would get out of prison, finally grow the fuck up at fifty, and let go of his ignorant bullshit while keeping the best bits of himself. He could learn to suck it up and be fucking civil, or civil enough to come visit Daryl and Paul at their little house in Athens on a Sunday afternoon to watch a game. Daryl’s imagination wasn’t big enough to imagine a scenario where his boyfriend and his brother were actual _friends,_ but able to have a fucking cookout or something together with no blood spilled would have been enough.

Daryl couldn’t say any of that to Michonne, and after a while she drifted off. They hadn’t brought it up since. Nor had they brought up Andrea. One day early on in their search they were picking through yet another abandoned little town and Michonne mentioned that she and Andrea had stayed there a few nights during the past winter. As soon as the words were out her jaw snapped shut and she said nothing to him for the rest of the day and most of the day after.

A few nights after that when they found a place to stop she still seemed more withdrawn than normal. Daryl remembered how Michonne had refused to leave Andrea’s side when she shot herself, remembered how after the sound of the gunshot faded the rest of them went back into the room and found Michonne still clinging to Andrea’s hand and weeping. Daryl also remembered Merle had sneered at Michonne back when they first escaped from Woodbury. _Her and blondie spent all winter cuddled up._ His brother was an asshole but Merle _could_ read people fairly well, and Daryl couldn’t help but wonder.

“Something I’ve been meanin’ to ask _you_ ,” Daryl finally said. She gave him a blank look, and he couldn’t tell how she was feeling one way or the other, so like an idiot he plunged on ahead, “Was you and Andrea…” he trailed off. She might not want to talk about it.

“Were we what?” Michonne asked, her tone of voice answering the question of whether or not she wanted to talk about it.

“Nothing,” Daryl said, then, “Never mind.” He didn’t need to know the answer, just wanted his curiosity satisfied.

“No, by all means. Ask your questions,” Michonne said in a voice that was so calm and cold it froze him down to his bones, made him think of whenever he _really_ pissed Paul off, the other man got quiet and still and Daryl knew he was fucked.

He’d opened his mouth like a damn idiot though, so might as well go all the way, “Was you two together? Like girlfriends, I mean.”

“Asking me if I’m a lesbian?” Michonne said, in that same cold voice.

“Jus’ wondering,” Daryl said, “wouldn’t make no difference to me.”

“No, we weren’t,” Michonne replied, voice deceptively soft.

Daryl knew he should drop it, knew that he already had her riled up, but he couldn’t help but ask, “Did you want to be?”

“I’m not gay, Daryl,” Michonne said, “That doesn’t mean I want to fuck or whatever it is you’re hinting at.”

He gaped at her, feeling his cheeks grow hot while at the same time wanting to burst out laughing. He dropped his eyes to the floor and was barely able to stammer out, “That’s not why…I don’t…you two jus’ seemed…”

“We weren’t,” Michonne said slowly, in a completely different tone of voice, “Just…she was just a friend, one I needed very badly.” When Daryl was finally able to look at her she was studying him with eyes that were soft now instead of hard and cold. He wasn’t sure what had changed but he was grateful nonetheless.

“Oh,” Daryl answered. He felt a little disappointed, part of him had hoped she was like him. Even though she wasn’t he almost told her then that he _was_ gay, if only so she would be sure to not get the wrong idea again. He didn’t, though. She might ask some questions, might bring up some things he had zero interest in discussing.

Paul had been dead for nearly a year and Daryl still hadn’t been able to talk about him with anyone. He’d come close a few times to telling Carol or Rick but something stopped him each time. At first with Rick it was because Daryl was afraid the other man would realize just how often Daryl’s eyes wandered. Not as much anymore, as the months had passed Daryl’s feelings had become…complicated. His relationship with Rick grew more into something he wished he could have had with Merle rather than something like when he first started falling for Paul. Daryl still found himself noticing every now and then just how handsome Rick was, sometimes seeing the other man grin at something he said made Daryl feel hot and flush all the way down to his toes. He didn’t worry so much Rick would reject him outright, he knew better than that. Just that their growing closeness would become tense and awkward, that he’d have to get a “don’t make a pass at me” speech. Daryl was aware of the irony. 

Despite those fears after Lori died and Rick lost his dang mind Daryl almost told him then. He wanted to sit his friend down and say, _I know what it’s like,_ just on the offhand chance it would _help._ But at the time he thought Carol had been killed as well and was still reeling from that loss, baby Judith needed _someone_ to go find her some formula so she wouldn’t starve, and Daryl thought if he tried to talk about Paul on top of all that he would have gone just as crazy as Rick.

With Carol it had been on the tip of his tongue _so_ many times, he almost blurted out the first time she suggested the two of them “screw around.” What stopped him was the realization that she was just fucking with him. There were countless other times he thought about telling her, times on the road when it was just the two of them smoking cigarettes a ways off from the group and talking. Most of their talk was bullshit, but she also told him a bit about her husband and he told her a bit about growing up with Merle. About Lori’s baby and the kind of world it could expect to grow up in.After the Governor much of their talk was focused on that, on all the new people coming into the prison. There was never good way to just lead into the gay thing, and every time he thought about bringing it up himself he couldn’t help but wonder what difference it would make. She didn’t seem serious when she flirted with him or called him pet names, she didn’t seem to have the wrong idea about his _intentions._

Besides, the whole _coming out_ thing was something Daryl had never been good at to begin with. After he admitted it to himself and got with Paul he didn’t try and hide it but still almost never brought it up unprompted. There weren’t many people in his life he needed to actually come out _to_ ; or at least many of consequence. It was nothing to him to tell people like servers in restaurants he was waiting on his boyfriend, or bank tellers that he wanted his boyfriend to have access to his checking account. There were times when he and Paul were out drinking and since neither one was big on PDA looked like just good buddies instead of a couple. Sometimes on those nights women would come up and make a pass at Paul (Paul said they made passes at Daryl too but he didn’t believe it) Whenever it happened Daryl never had a problem with bluntly telling them, “He’s gay and he’s with me. Fuck off _.”_ He hadn’t even really come out to Merle, just said enough to let his brother figure it out for himself. Before he moved to Athens Daryl didn’t really have friends of his own, just some of lowlifes he’d inherited from Merle. Guys he’d go drinking with if they were there but who he had no problem cutting off and never speaking to again.

The first people who really mattered that Daryl came out to were his coworkers after nearly a year on the job. He didn’t lie about it, the subject just didn’t really come up. Daryl didn’t talk much at work andkept to himself just in general; when he _did_ talk it was about things like football or hunting or how annoying the students could be. Then one day Marty, his favorite coworker, just casually asked him if Daryl had Fourth of July plans and Daryl jumped off the cliff. He had a moment where he considered lying, if only by omission. He hadn’t planned on “coming out” that day or any time soon, especially not while half his coworkers were within hearing distance in the shop. But if he did that it would mean he was ashamed, and he refused to be ashamed of Paul. So he answered honestly. ““Me ’n my boyfriend are going up to Gatlinburg,”he said evenly, forcing himself to be casual, as though he were talking about the weather.

Dead silence, not just from Marty but from the other guys as well. Sweat broke out at Daryl’s temples, inside of him a panicky little voice was telling to laugh it off, act like it was a joke. _Christ, I ain’t gay, I’m just fucking with you._ Or get up in Marty or anyone else’s face, say he was gay and if they had a problem he’d kick their asses.

Instead he took a deep breath and continued working.

“Seriously?” Marty said, sounding as though he wasn’t sure whether or not Daryl was fucking with him.

“Yeah, we’re going up hiking in the Smokies, ain’t never been. Thought ‘bout maybe Pigeon Forge, but neither of us wanted to deal with that Dollywood shit.” Ok, now _that_ was a lie. Paul would have gone to Dollywood and loved it, viewed it as one big roadside curiosity.

“I meant do you seriously, are you really…” Marty made a swishing gesture with his hand before letting it dangle from a limp wrist.

Daryl glared at him and spat out, “Dunno what that means. I gotta boyfriend, though, if that’s what yer asking.” He gave Marty another challenging glare, making the other man drop his eyes and go quiet.

Daryl turned his attention back to his work, throat tight. He felt like the entire shop was staring at him. His hands shook a little as he continued working, the silence was _suffocating._ Just when he thought he couldn’t endure it a moment longer Marty let out a low whistle and said, “Cracker, I wouldn’t’ve never guessed that about you. I mean, we’ve all changed in the locker room, I never noticed—“

“Maybe it’s because all y’all are ugly as hell,” Daryl snapped.

There was an explosion of laughter. The source was Elwood, an older guy Daryl got along with. “You got a point,” he said, when he noticed Daryl looking.

“Fuck _you,_ man. I’m gorgeous,” Marty replied.

“So you want me to look at you, that what you saying? Faggot,” Daryl grunted. This time Elwood wasn’t the only one who laughed.

“I’m saying I’m a beautiful man, and I ain’t ugly.”

“You tryin’ to cure me of the gay thing? It’s workin’,” Daryl answered back easily. More laughter, Marty joining in.

The conversation moved on from there. It didn’t come up again, not until Daryl went for a smoke break hours later and found Marty already there. Nothing unusual about that, the two of them often took break at the same time and used the opportunity to shoot the shit or bum smokes off of each other. Despite the fact that things had blown over earlier Daryl was still nervous. He nodded to Marty and lit a cigarette, avoiding looking at him.

The other man spoke first. In a slightly awkward voice he said, “Your boyfriend…he got a name?”

“Paul,” Daryl said, feeling uncertain of where this was going.

“What’s he do?”

“Works at the library on campus,” Daryl said.

“Been together long?”

“Couple years,” Daryl answered. It slowly dawned on Daryl that Marty was just asking for no other reason than simple curiosity. For the same reason he’d ask about any of the other guys’ wives.

“Mmmm,” Marty said. Both men were quiet for a bit, concentrating on smoking. After a few minutes of that Marty spoke again, “What do you think of the Braves this season?”

To say Daryl was relieved at the change of subject would be an understatement. They chatted a bit about how shit the Braves were that year, and Marty finished his smoke and nodded to Daryl the same way he always did before going back inside the shop.

As soon as he was gone Daryl fished his cellphone out of his pocket so he could text Paul. _Just came out to coworkers_.

The reply came back almost immediately, and like always Daryl wondered just how he was able to text so fast. _RU ok? Were they cool abt it?_

Daryl thought it over before typing, _think so._

Daryl’s phone buzzed a few seconds later, _proud of u, it’s scary 2 do the 1st time but gets easier._

Daryl thought for a minute before typing out his reply, one of the longest texts he’d ever written: _feel like I’m going 2 puke. My hands keep shaking. But I’m glad. Wasn’t the end of the world. The guys said some shit but nothing worse than normal._

_Of course ur glad. Even when it goes bad it’s always a relief to quit hiding._

Daryl started to type a reply when his phone buzzed again, another message from Paul. _would u like 2have some gay sex tonight 2 celebrate?_

Daryl let out a surprised snort of laughter even as his cheeks heated up. He quickly deleted what he’d typed and just went with, _Sounds good._

Paul sent him a final reply: _:D! But seriously call if u need to talk more._

_No its cool._

And it _was_ cool after that. A couple of guys gave him the cold shoulder or acted like dicks about it but most of the others couldn’t care less. It wasn’t like it came up often, at work Daryl tended to stick to superficial conversation. It was probably because auto shop or no they still worked for the University and there were _policies_ in place when it came to treating someone who was gay or black or a woman or whatever. Policies that weren’t followed by the letter by everyone but close enough.

Paul was right, though. It was a relief not to hide it, not to worry that he’d slip up and get found out. If some of the guys in the shop weren’t buddy-buddy with him anymore then it was no skin off Daryl’s ass. After all it was just a job, a way to get money to pay their bills, and when he left at the end of the day he forgot all about it. At the end of the day he got to come home and be with the person whose opinion he _really_ cared about, the person who he liked talking to more than anyone else in the whole world and certainly more than his fellow grease monkeys at the shop.

Years later after the end of the world Daryl was lying awake next to someone he was starting to see as good a friend as any he had back then and was unable to spit it out. It all came back to the fact there was just no reason to. Michonne hadn’t gotten the wrong idea since that one awkward conversation about Andrea, and by that point they were comfortable with each other. _Very_ comfortable, but neither one wanted to talk. He wondered just what she thought about besides Andrea, the same way he thought about much more than Merle.

******

The rain stopped a few hours after dawn and the two of them climbed down from the treehouse to continue their search. The skies were still overcast, and Daryl had a feeling those clouds were just waiting for them to get dry before pissing down all over them.

They hadn’t been at there search long when they turned a corner and saw a herd made up of dozens of walkers shuffling through the street. Daryl and Michonne froze then started backing slowly away. He turned around to signal her, she was looking intently at the herd, jaw clenched and eyes narrowed. That’s when Daryl noticed movement behind her.

Before his brain really caught up to what he was seeing his hands had already sprung into action, pulling the knife he wore strapped to his belt free. Michonne’s eyes widened, and she ducked as Daryl threw the knife at the approaching walker. His aim was true, hitting the walker right between the eyes. It stood on its feet for a split second before collapsing to the ground.

Michonne stared at Daryl, then said, “Fuck.” He didn’t need to ask why she said that, he _knew_ why. Still he instinctually looked back toward the herd just to verify that yes, enough of them had registered the flurry of moment and were slowly switching directions to head their way.

They ran.

More of the dead were being drawn in by the noises of herd, Daryl saw them drifting out of the abandoned houses as they raced past, their dumb white eyes wide and their mouths agape.

“Go, go, go!” he shouted at Michonne.

They were driven like terrified animals into an alleyway and nearly crashed into someone. For a split second Daryl thought she was dead and instinctively raised his crossbow just as she fumbled for the gun at her hip. Before she could raise it or Daryl could shoot Michonne lunged forward, shoved Daryl aside, and grabbed the woman by the wrist. The woman’s eyes went wide, she raised a fist and Michonne yelled out, “ _There’s dozens of them, we need to run now!”_ She punctuated last word by pushing the woman out of the way and running past her. After a split second’s hesitation Daryl followed.

More of the dead were coming, swarming out from around buildings and shuffling toward them. They moved slow but when there were so many of them and so many that were drawn in by the ruckus it was hard to dodge.

They hadn’t run far when the woman caught up with them, and was then passing them. She was skinny but she could move, she glanced over her shoulder at Daryl and Michonne and shouted, “Follow me!”

Daryl didn’t pause to think as he had no better ideas. Michonne must have felt the same since she obeyed the command without bothering to even look at Daryl.

Daryl realized they were in the downtown area, what had once been Main Street. Shops flashed by him, a restaurant, a coffee shop, an antiques market, a bank. Their new acquaintance was running full tilt for the bank, Daryl saw there was a man standing in front gaping at them.

“ _Ryan, they’re coming! Get everyone inside!”_

Ryan didn’t hesitate, he spun around and pushed through the bank’s revolving door. A few seconds later their group was upon it, and there was an absurd moment when their new acquaintance went through and Michonne had to jerk to a stop and wait before jumping in, only for Daryl to need to slam to a halt a few seconds later.

He could hear the dead groaning, filling up the street behind him.

The door spun.

In the reflection of the glass Daryl could see dozens of blurry shapes behind him.

The doorway opened and Daryl jumped in. He pushed his way inside, stumbling a little as he escaped the revolving door. Michonne caught him by the shoulder.

Daryl turned to look at the dead coming in. They were pushed up six deep against the glass, pawing and scratching and pounding.

“Come on!” a new voice said. Daryl spun around and saw the man their new companion had called Ryan was gesturing for them to follow him behind the counter. Daryl hurried over, Michonne at his side. They went through a side door, and soon were stumbling through a darkened labyrinth of hallways. Just ahead of them in the darkness was a flickering light, as they came up Daryl saw a young blonde girl holding up a lantern and staring wide-eyed at them. Behind her was more light, Daryl could see a large, circular portal that after a split second realized was the door to the bank vault.

“ _Lizzie get inside!”_ Ryan shouted, then, “Is your sister in there?” The blonde girl, Lizzie, nodded and stepped back inside the vault. The four adults followed, Daryl nearly tripping on the way in. When everyone was inside Ryan swung the massive door closed, spun a giant wheel that looked a bit like one on a ship and there was the rattling noise of bolts sliding into place.

Once they were inside and Daryl started to catch his breath he realized there were more people there. A youngish, heavyset guy with brown skin, and another little girl with blonde hair. The vault was lit up by battery powered lanterns, and Daryl could see a stack of canned food and a case of water in one corner and a pile of what looked like sleeping bags and other gear in another.

As adrenaline faded from his system more observations made it through—it was hot in the little vault, and it stank of sweaty bodies and piss. The girls peered nervously at them from behind Ryan, the way he put his arms around them made Daryl think of Rick and Carl. The man himself was staring at Daryl and Michonne with forced determination, fingers gripping his girls’ shoulders.

“Hi,” the woman they’d followed said just as the silence started to grow tense.

“Hello,” Michonne replied, “thank you for letting us in. I’m Michonne, and this is Daryl.”

“I’m Chloe,” said the woman replied, “That’s Ryan, and Dr. S. Those two,” she gestured at the little girls, “are Lizzie and Mika.”

“You’re a doctor?” Daryl said, studying the guy closer, “Like a real one, for people?” Dr. S nodded, and Daryl shot Michonne another look. He was already thinking of asking them the questions just because of the little girls, but a fucking doctor on top of that? Hershel was amazing and had done wonders both at the prison and before on the road but he could definitely use the help, especially now that he was short a leg. “This all of you?”

Ryan took a deep breath, eyes flickering nervously between Michonne and Daryl, “Why do you want to know?”

“We ain’t lookin’ for trouble,” Daryl said, “Well, none to do with you people. We’re lookin’ for a guy.”

“Pretty boy white guy,” Michonne said, “Tall, missing an eye.” The last bit was said with savage satisfaction. She’d fought ol’ Philip one on one and taken his eye as a trophy, she was a fucking _badass._

Chloe shook her head, “We haven’t seen anyone like that, and we’ve been here for months.”

“Been in this vault the whole time?” Daryl asked. It certainly smelled like they had.

“We just pile in here when it looks like a herd might break through,” Dr. S said.

“Which has been happening more and more,” Ryan said, stroking the hair of one of his daughters. Then, in a pained voice whispered, “There were more of us here at first. But we kept losing people.” The smaller of his two girls sniffled loudly, and Daryl had a good idea of who one of the people they had lost was.

Daryl glanced at Michonne. She was staring at Ryan and his two little girls, and it was one of those times when Daryl couldn’t make heads or tails of her expression. He turned back to the huddled little group in front of him and asked, “How many walkers have you killed?”

They all stared at him in confusion. Dr. S spoke first, “Me?”

“Askin’ all of you.”

“I don’t know,” Dr. S said. He glanced at Chloe, “Five, maybe.”

“More than that,” Chloe said, eyes far away.

Ryan shook his head and wiped a tear from his eye and whispered, “Just Joanie. My wife.” His younger daughter sniffled again. The older girl just stared ahead of her, face hard.

“How many people?” Daryl continued. Dr. S had killed two. Chloe had killed one. Ryan’s answer was the same as his previous one.

Daryl asked the final question, “ _Why?_ ”

“They were dying,” Dr. S said, “There was nothing I could do, except make it easier.”

“He,” Chloe swallowed and looked down, “he was bigger than me, I couldn’t stop him. After he fell asleep and I cut his throat.”

“I loved her,” Ryan whispered, “I loved her so much. I owed to her.”

Daryl hesitated, then traded a glance with Michonne. Her lips were pressed together and her eyes were dark with uncertainty.

“We got a place,” Daryl said, “It’s a safe place,” he gave that a second thought, “Well. Safe as any place is these days. We can take you back with us.”

Chloe looked at him and Daryl could see hope and suspicion warring on her face, “Why would you do take us back with you?”

“Why’d you lead the two of us back here?” Daryl countered. He thought about what she’d said when he’d asked about the people she’d killed. In a soft voice he said, “There’s lots of us. More than thirty. We got some old folks and little kids, could use a doctor. Could use anyone able to help clear out the dead.”

“What about the guy you’re looking for?” Chloe asked, eyes still narrowed and suspicious.

Daryl hesitated again; torn. Every moment that the Governor was free put them in danger. He was only one man, but Daryl didn’t underestimate him. He and Michonne could split up, or leave these people here and catch up with them on their way back to the prison. He didn’t like either option, there were two little kids with them and Chloe looked to be the only real fighter. He thought he could shepherd them back by himself with her help, but it would be risky.

“He can wait,” Michonne murmured so quietly Daryl barely heard her. It was the first thing she’d said since she’d introduced them. He gave her a surprised look and she turned her head away from him and addressed the small group of survivors, “It’ll take us a couple days. We should spend the night here, rest up. Set out first thing in the morning.”

“If you want to come with us, that is,” Daryl said.

“I don’t know about you,” Dr. S said to the other members of his group, “But I’m liking the sound of this place.”

_******_

Carol was at the gate to meet them two days later. It hadn’t been an easy trip back, what with four of the group not being much use in a fight, and two of those four being little kids on top of _that._ They made it in the end, which was all that mattered.

“We weren’t expecting you two back for another couple of days,” Carol said, smiling brightly at Daryl and nodding at Michonne. “Who’s this—“ her voice trailed off, she was staring at the two little girls and blood was draining from her face. She looked like she’d seen a ghost, and Daryl kicked himself for not seeing it before now. Both girls looked like they could be Sophia’s sisters, particularly Mika, the younger of the two. Before Daryl could ask if she was ok she plastered on a big, fake smile that he hadn’t seen since the camp in Atlanta.

“Hi,” she said in an equally fake voice, “I’m Carol.” Introductions were made all around, and no one but Daryl seemed to notice the way Carol flinched when Mika asked if there were any other kids there. Carol kept up her cheerful patter, telling the group that they needed to talk to Rick first, then they could pick out their very own cell. “It’s nowhere near as bleak as it sounds,” Carol said.

“It doesn’t look bleak at all,” Dr. S said, staring around at the prison yard with wonder. The high fences, thick walls, and watchtowers looking over everything. There were huge patches of earth churned up, looked like they were getting on with the planting.

“Well, come on,” Carol said, “I’ll take you to Rick than show you around. He’s in charge here. Daryl, sweetie, he wants to talk to you too. Get cleaned up first.”

Daryl grumbled. He had a fine layer of grime from being on the road for weeks and had been _planning_ on getting cleaned up first thing, but now that Carol _told_ him to do it he decided it could wait. She must have read that on his face because she gave another fake smile and said, “And let me wash that vest. Or burn it.”

“Nah, it’s fine,” Daryl growled out again, “You can take care of these here people, I’ll come to talk to Rick after.” He hesitated, then said, “You good, doin’ this?”

Her fake smile flickered off for a second and her eyes turned soft, “It’s nothing. Seriously, go get cleaned up.”

******

Michonne disappeared almost as soon as Carol left. She was often doing that, the last few times they came back he didn’t really see her until it was time to set out again. He didn’t take it personally; he just figured she needed a break from him. Despite the childish urge to refuse Carol’s command to wash up Daryl headed to the makeshift cisterns set up on the side of the prison first thing.

After he felt presentable he loitered in the prison yard for a bit, just to be sure Rick had plenty of time to talk to the newcomers. A few people waved at him, he saw Beth and Carl sprawled out on an oversized blanket with Judith between them, then Maggie and Glenn walking the fences, stopping to smash in the heads of any of the walkers that’d been drawn in.

When he finally got around to seeing Rick, the first thing the other man said was the same thing Carol did, “We weren’t expecting you two back yet.” He sounded pleased, and Daryl shrugged his shoulders.

“Weren’t much of a trail,” Daryl said, “And then we found them people. Seemed more important to get ‘em here.”

Rick nodded, “Having a doctor will be good, I sent him to talk to Hershel. You did the right thing, coming back.” He paused and looked away for a beat before saying, “Listen,there’s been something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.”

“Yeah?” Daryl asked, feeling a little uncertain.

“I’m thinking of stepping down,” Rick said, “From being in charge.”

Daryl stared at him for several long moments, surprised into silence. As he mulled it over part of him was in a whispery panic, because Rick was in _charge_ and Daryl didn’t know what to do without that fact. Couldn’t think of who in the group could step into his shoes. “Why?” Daryl asked.

Rick didn’t answer at first, just looked away and Daryl could see the muscle in his jaw twitching. He turned back to Daryl and said, “I’m worried about Carl. He shot that boy, when he had his hands up and had already surrendered.” He wiped his face with a weary hand, “He needs someone to show him another way.”

Daryl couldn’t come up with an argument for that. He remembered talking to Rick ages ago about how the kid needed to be hard in order to survive, but you could be too hard. It was easy to do now, to kill whoever got in your way, whoever you were scared of. They almost turned Michonne over to the Governor, which was as good as killing her. “So who’s gonna be in charge now?”

“That’s what I was wanting to talk to you about,” Rick must have read the horror on Daryl’s face because he quickly said, “it’s not a job for just one guy anymore, there’s too many people to look after. Plus we’re safe here for the most part, we don’t need someone always making snap decisions. So I had an idea for a council of some kind. I talked it over with Hershel, and he agreed.”

“A council,” Daryl said.

Rick nodded, “Yeah. I’m not sure how big, probably five or six people. I’m not sure who I want on it, but I got a few ideas.”

“Maybe me?” Daryl said uncertainly. He’d stepped into Rick’s shoes briefly before in the other man’s absence, but he always knew it was a temporary kind of thing. That all he had to do was hold the group together until Rick got back.

Rick nodded, and his eyes were soft, “I couldn’t think of anyone better, neither could Hershel.”

“Oh,” Daryl said. It was his turn to look away, he didn’t know if he could tolerate that soft look for long. Part of him was terrified, it reminded him of the day Paul told him that he loved him the first time. That trust and soft vulnerability. The wariness after Daryl lashed out, the way he looked after Daryl kissed him the first time. Sweet an hopeful. Daryl remembered thinking a guy like him didn’t deserve a guy like Paul giving him that look. He didn’t deserve a guy like Rick telling him he couldn’t think of anyone better than Daryl to bepartly in charge for the foreseeable future. “Ok,” Daryl said, “I can do that. Who else d’you have in mind?”

Rick smiled a little, “Who do you? If you had to choose? Four people.”

It knocked Daryl a little off-balance again. He drew his brows together in thought. The first three were easy, “Hershel. Carol. Glenn.” The last one was trickier, he almost said T-Dog out of habit even though the man had been dead for months. When the answer hit him it was so obvious he wondered why it took him so long, “Michonne.”

“Michonne?” Rick said, and fidgeted a little. Daryl stared at him, he wasn’t sure what about the idea of Michonne caused that reaction in him. Leftover guilt from the whole thing with the Governor? Rick rubbed the back of his neck, “Yeah, I thought about her too, I just didn’t…do you think she’d stay?”

_Do you think she’d stay?_ It hit Daryl then, the extent of what Rick was asking, what the responsibility would be. Rick was in charge and still went on runs, but would never go for weeks searching, would never go so far from the prison that he couldn’t quickly get back if necessary. If Daryl decided to be on this council it would mean giving up the search for the Governor, mean letting that one-eyed son-of-bitch _go._ The man had killed Daryl’s brother, had left him to turn and Daryl had to…

The ugly memory of putting down Merle down flashed before his eyes. Daryl crying, stabbing the thing that had once been his brother in the face again and again and _again_ until it was unrecognizable. Collapsing back on his elbows and sobbing. His main emotion doing it was anger—anger at Merle for being the way he was, anger at the Governor for killing him, anger at himself for the small bit of relief he felt. He missed Paul with an intensity he hadn’t felt since the first few months after he’d died.

“That trail,” Daryl started to say in a hoarse voice, “that trail’s cold. She might stay.”

“You feel that way too?” Rick said, and Daryl nodded. Rick rubbed the back of his neck, “My picks were almost the same as yours. Hershel suggested Sasha, he’s been getting to know her. Carol…do you think she’s up for it?”

Daryl snorted, “She’s got more balls than you’n me put together. She’ll do fine.”

“Well,” Rick said, “I’ll talk to her, then. Glenn and Sasha and Michonne too.”

******

Evening came in on the prison, and the group gathered outside to eat. Meals were made communally now, it was the best way to conserve supplies. Daryl grabbed a plate and stood off a little ways from everyone, thinking over Rick’s request.

Their little group had grown so much since Atlanta and Hershel’s farm. Now it had dozens of folks, from Woodbury and random strays found on runs. Little kids as well, and Daryl briefly felt overwhelmed and panicky at the thought of being _responsible_ for them all. For making the decisions that would keep them alive.

“Wouldn’t just be me, though,” Daryl murmured softly to himself. He didn’t realize that he was addressing Paul at first. It was the first time he’d spoken to Paul since the day Merle died. After that day he thought he was done with it, but apparently he never would be able to stop occasionally talking to Paul and imaging his answers.

_You’ll do fine. They were gonna make you shop manager, remember?_

Daryl snorted. Shop manager was nowhere near this level of responsibility. “You’re one to talk, wouldn’t even go to library school just ‘cause you hated bein’ in charge.”

That was one of the things about Paul that had always puzzled Daryl, the fact that he claimed he “wasn’t a leader” and avoided being one at all costs, even minor shit like stuff at work. It was a contradiction, with how self-possessed his boyfriend was otherwise. 

Daryl ate more of his food, watched people talking and laughing with their friends. He became aware of Michonne off in the distance across the yard, eating alone much the same way Daryl himself was. _Well, not for long,_ Daryl thought to himself. Rick was walking slowly over, she hadn’t seen him yet. He stopped a few yards away from Michonne, too far away for Daryl to see his face but he could read the body language clear as day—the hesitant shifting from foot to foot, the way he raked his hand through his hair before straightening his shoulders and stepping closer.

_Oh,_ Daryl thought, looking away. He swallowed a lump in his throat, confused and uncertain on how that new development made him feel. It’s not like he felt that way about Rick, not anymore, not after their months on the road. Not that Daryl didn’t love him; he thought he loved Rick Grimes more than he’d ever loved anyone in his entire life with the obvious exception of Paul, and maybe Carol. But wasn't like that, not anymore, and besides even if he did Rick would never think of Daryl that way, he was the most painfully heterosexual man Daryl had ever met. Finally if Daryl felt that way, and Rick _returned_ that feeling, Daryl didn’t think he’d ever be able to act on it. Not in a world where he’d fallen in love with Paul Rovia. Even thinking about made Daryl feel disloyal to Paul’s memory.

“Ain’t never gonna love nobody but you,” he whispered, _So why does this still hurt?_ Was it because Rick had lost Lori and was still able to move on? Was it because he saw the way Michonne’s eyes touched Rick’s face and it reminded him that he’d never be able to look at anyone that way again?

“I wish you was here,” Daryl said. Paul had been dead for over a year and Daryl still couldn’t stop himself thing from cruel what-ifs and could-have-beens. Daryl had _survived_ , he’d found more people to love and trust than he had in all the years before the end, the guy he admired and respected most in the world had told him that he trusted _Daryl_ to be in charge, take his place. Run things. They were building a life here, one that Daryl was starting to think might last.

If Paul were alive they could have had a life there at the prison. The thought tormented him whenever he saw Glenn and Maggie curled up in their bunk or holding hands or just grinning stupidly at each other. Not for the first time he wondered what Paul would think of these people he had started to think of as family. He stared at the tattoo on his finger. _We could’ve got married,_ he thought. Just like Glenn and Maggie did, without a ceremony. Daryl would just ask if Paul wanted to be his husband and start referring to him as such. Who would have tried arguing with him? There were no rules anymore. He thought of how hot it was in at night sometimes in those narrow prison bunks, but no matter how miserable he got he would’ve given _anything_ to have Paul sprawled on top of him.

******

A few hours later Daryl was reading in his bunk when to his surprise Michonne came to the door of his cell.

“Knock knock,” she deadpanned.

He straightened up, put his book( _Lonesome Dove)_ aside and looked at her expectantly.

“Rick talk to you about this whole council thing?” Michonne asked, and when Daryl nodded continued with, “We won’t be able to look for the Governor if we do it.”

“I know,” Daryl replied.

“And you’re ok with that?” Michonne asked.

“I ain’t never gonna be ok with not knowing what happened to that prick,” Daryl said slowly. He glanced over at his book, fiddled with the cover, then said, “But that trail’s cold. We haven’t found any real lead since we started. When we found them people, we could’ve just left ‘em and continued on our way, but we didn’t. Now we got a doctor, those two little girls will have a safe place where they can grow up…” he trailed off. He had difficulty putting it into words. Had to at least try, “Merle and Andrea are dead. The Governor, he might be dead too. Them folks from Woodbury said he just went crazy, maybe he shot himself. I got enough dead people, don’t need to go lookin’ for more.”

Michonne didn’t say anything for a long time after Daryl finished speaking. Finally she said, “I think that’s the longest I’ve heard you talk since we met.” Daryl shrugged, and waited to see if she had anything else to say. “So you’re going to say yes?”

“I am,” Daryl replied, “How ‘bout you?”

“I’m going to think about it.”

******

Michonne left less than a week later. She left without telling him, which hurt a surprising amount. Not like he was special, apparently Carl was the only person she’d talked to before she left. Gone out to look for the Governor on her own.

Rick was upset but pretending not to be. “Guess that’s her answer about the prison council,” he said. He scraped his foot nervously against the ground. “You think she’ll be alright, out there by herself?”

_No I don’t,_ Daryl thought but didn’t say. Oh, physically she would be ok, Michonne could take care of herself and had lasted on her own for _months_ before she met Andrea. If she turned up ol’ Philip the bastard wouldn’t know what hit him. But she’d left, she’d decided that looking for the dead mattered more than seeing to the living. Rick looked a little forlorn, and Daryl thought of the nervous way he’d shuffled his feet when he asked Michonne to join the prison council, to stay.

“She’ll come back,” Daryl said.

“You think so?”

“I do. Maybe she’ll end up staying.”

Rick kicked at the dirt again and nodded, “Maybe. Until she does it looks like it’s just you, Hershel, Carol, Glenn and Sasha.”

“We’ll try not to burn the place down,” Daryl said, and was rewarded with Rick’s smile.


	18. Paul: Part IX

Paul and Lou were on foot when they reached the outskirts of Washington almost a month after Asheville. He’d been forced to abandon the van when he left the Shenandoah Valley, which had been terrifying, almost as bad as when he’d left the safety of the house in Athens behind. Over the weeks of travel the van had become familiar, a single point of stability in his life. He had no choice if he wanted to continue heading east, the roads heading toward the capitol were a snarled tangle of cars that made all passage impossible. He tried for days before giving up; unless he wanted to backtrack south for a hundred miles then try to cut east via Richmond. It was likely to be just as bad approaching DC from that direction, so he loaded up his pack and Lou’s saddle bags with supplies and started walking. At night they took shelter where they could find it, huddling in Paul’s sleeping bag and trying to get a few snatches of sleep.

After weeks of traveling this way he found Barrington house by accident and almost moved on without stopping. If it had been up to him he would have, it had been weeks since he’d interacted with other people. Ever since Asheville he deliberately avoided them, outright hiding at times whenever he ran across a larger group. It was a challenge with Lou by his side since she’d always loved people, back in Athens when they went on their evening walks she had to say hi to every neighbor they passed. Sometimes she would even try and drag Paul or Daryl across the street if she saw someone she knew. She was only a little better behaved after her time alone in Athens and weeks of being on the road with Paul. She would glue herself to Paul’s side and whimper softly at the passing people, clearly _wanting_ to go and get some ear scratches but willing to obey Paul’s commands.

So it was really Lou’s fault that they stumbled on Barrington House in the first place. They were walking overland, picking their way through the woods when Lou heard something that made her ears perk up and tail start wagging. Before Paul could stop her she was bounding through the woods ignoring his hissed commands to stop. After a brief chase he found what caught her attention. There was a teenage boy on the edge of a creek, throwing a large… _thing_ into the water, it looked like a hula hoop with plastic bottles mounted to it. The strange contraption made a loud splash, a siren song to Paul’s dopey mutt. He shouted at her to _wait,_ she was wearing her sweater and had her pack on over that which was filled with shit that really shouldn’t be getting wet. At his shout the kid stumbled in fright, and again when Lou galloped past him and leapt into the water making an even louder splash. She paddled over to the floating coke bottles and grabbed one in her teeth.

The kid came to himself with a jolt, and Paul saw that he had a length of rope in one hand connected to the bit of flotsam that Lou was currently struggling to bring to shore. He shot a fearful glance at Paul then down at his feet where he had a fucking _spear._ Paul came to a stop a few yards away, holding his hands up.

“Hey,” he said, his voice a rasp. He’d stopped talking even to Lou unless it was absolutely necessary and words were jagged and hard to shape. “I come in peace.” He glanced at where Lou was still floundering in the water, “Can I get my idiot dog out of the water before she freezes to death?”

The boy said nothing for a long moment, blinking his eyes in Paul's direction but not meeting his face. He looked to be about fourteen or so, a few inches taller than Paul and all arms and legs. He had a bit of an overbite and jagged teeth in addition to thick lenses over his blinking eyes. The glasses gave him the look of a particularly nervous bug. He turned his attention back to the rope in his hand and started hauling it back in, dragging Lou with it. When she got to the edge of the water Paul waded in and grabbed her by the collar, telling her to _drop that right now._

He needn’t have wasted his breath, she bounded out of the water, shook herself off and splashed Paul with icy creek water before she trotted over to meet her new best friend. The boy stared at her for a minute before cautiously giving her head a pat.

“Hi,” Paul said after a minute. The kid looked up again, still not quite meeting his eyes, “I’m Paul Rovia. Some people used to call me Jesus, though. Said there’s a resemblance.”

“Jesus wasn’t white,” the kid blurted out,“If there was a real Jesus, which is definitely not proven, although there is some mention of him in the historical record. But regardless a Hebrew man in the Levant at that time period would certainly have darker skin, although race as we know it was not concept at the time.”

Paul stared at him; the kid had said it rapidly, not pausing once in order to take a breath. And while he was addressing Paul he looked at Lou as he talked instead. Finally Paul said, “I don’t think they were being serious when they called me that. Paul is fine though, if you’d like.”

“Sorry,” the kid said, shuffling his feet and pushing his glasses up his nose, “I talk too much sometimes, I just…” he gestured vaguely, fingers tapping out a rapid movement.

“Hey, it’s cool,” Paul replied, “I’m not used to talking to people anyway.” A bit of an understatement. The kid kept staring at the space right above Paul’s left shoulder, so he simply asked, “And what’s your name?”

“Oh,” the kid said, sounding startled again. “Right. I’m Rory.”

“Rory,” Paul repeated, “nice to meet you.” He glanced down at the crazy contraption at the edge of the river. It was six empty two-liter bottles strapped to what was indeed an old hula hoop. The top part of each bottle had been cut off then shoved back inside backwards, creating a little funnel. “What the heck is that thing?” Paul asked.

“A fish trap,” Rory said, “I was testing it out, it works so far.” He blundered down toward creek, patting Lou as moved past her. “See, you put a bit of bait in the bottle, throw it in the water. The fish swims in through the funnel, it’s big enough to get in but not wide enough for them to turn around and get out. I caught a few already, my mom wasn’t sure if it’d work but it does.” He gestured to a creel next to the spear, “They aren’t very big fish, but if you cut some slits into the funnel here you can make it wider, bigger fish can come in that way.” He gave Paul the explanation the same way he’d explained that the “real” Jesus wasn’t white—rapidly and without pausing for breath. His nerves seemed to vanish while he talked, he was gradually able to at least look in Paul’s direction. “You can make all kinds of things from junk,” the Rory said earnestly, pushing his glasses up his nose, “I was talking to Gregory, how we shouldn’t just be scavenging for already made stuff, but _materials,_ did you know an Aid Group in India made a house with a wall of plastic bottles, it worked as an air conditioner, wind blowing in and funneled—“

“You got a camp around here?” Paul interrupted. He was charmed as fuck over Rory but had a feeling if he didn’t cut him off then they’d be there all day.

Rory started again and went quiet. He didn’t seem offended, rather he seemed like he was realizing just then that he was alone with a stranger who could be dangerous. Rory looked down at Lou, who was leaning against his legs and staring up at him with her tongue out. She was shivering a little despite her cheerful tail wagging. Rory made a decision rapidly and said, “Yeah. Well, not a camp. It’s a house. An old house, built in the 1700s, been there since then, before electricity and everything—“

“Let’s go, then,” Paul said with a smile. “If that’s ok with you and the rest of your group. I don’t want any trouble.” He knew he wasn’t being rational, that just because this group was apparently willing to take care of a kid this young and odd didn’t mean they weren’t also dangerous. Still, he was tired and just wanted to rest for a bit, maybe get something to eat that wasn’t thejerky and granola that was all he had left of Daryl’s supplies.

Rory hesitated a moment longer before shrugging his thin shoulders and saying, “Yeah, the doggie needs to get dried off. What’s his name?”

“She’s a girl, it’s Jean Louise. Lou.”

“Hi, Jean Louise,” Rory said solemnly, “let’s go Barrington house.”

*******

Barrington House was an enormous former plantation at the crest of a hill less than a mile away from the creek where he met Rory. Paul could see people bustling all around the outside, going in and out of the trailers crowded around the main house. It was surrounded by wire and sharpened spikes, and near the house Paul could see the beginnings of an actual wall being built from downed trees. As they approached Paul could hear the noise of sawing and hammering, groups of people dragging logs to be shaped into part of the wall.

He paused for a moment to take it all in, getting a flash of agoraphobia at the sight of so many people. There were only a few dozen but it was more people all in one place than he had seen in months. Rory didn’t notice at first, he kept walking and didn’t so much as pause in his lecture on the history of Barrington House, one that stretched all the way back to the Revolution. Lou also didn’t notice at first either, at the sight of so many people her tail became a blur she was wagging it so fast, her ears perking up and doing a little dance.

Paul got many stares as they approached, and Lou got even more. She was in heaven, so many new people to say hello to and get pets from. A few children were playing closer to the house, the first Paul had seen in he couldn’t remember when. Lou was beside herself, she trotted right on over to a solemn faced little girl and rolled over on her back. The girl hesitated a moment before bending down to give her a belly rub, a slow smile spreading across her face.

A man with auburn hair and a short beard approached them, giving Paul a wary look before asking Rory, “Who’s your friend?”

Before Paul could introduce himself Rory blurted out, “He’s Paul Rovia, but his friends call him Jesus, because he looks like Jesus but not really, his dog is called Jean Louise and she’s very nice, she got wet in the creek because she jumped after my fish traps, they were working by the way Doctor C—”

“Whoah now,” the man said, lips quirking a brief, indulgent smile, “Take a breath.” He turned his attention to Paul and said, “Jesus, huh? I’m Dr. Carson. Harlan.” He offered his hand and Paul shook it, studying the man’s face.

“Paul or Jesus, whichever you prefer.”

“Where you coming from?” Dr. Carson asked.

“Georgia,” Paul answered, “We’re headed to DC.” He looked around at the workers scurrying around. The brief curiosity he’d incited apparently wasn’t enough to distract them for too long, at least not the adults. The kids were a different story, Lou had drawn in a small crowd, kids bending down to pet her and a few hanging back shyly. Lou was on her back with her paws in the air, head was thrown back, mouth open and tongue flopping out, the perfect image of canine bliss.

“You’re a long way from home,” Dr. Carson said with a faint trace of awe, “Did you come here by yourself?”

“Well, me and Lou,” he gestured over to the dog who was still enjoying her new fan club of Hilltop children.

“On foot?” Carson said, astonished.

“Only part of the way,” Paul replied with a shrug.

“What is that, six hundred miles? Seven? You were alone the whole time?” he was studying Paul with interest.

Paul shrugged again, “Well, it wasn’t easy.”

“Yeah, I had a feeling,” Carson said, still studying him with that thoughtful expression, “What’s in DC?”

Paul explained about Carmen, Mateo, and the soldiers who were headed to DC. Then after a brief hesitation he told the Doctor about Operation Cobalt, how the military was strategically falling back toward Washington. Or supposed to, at least. When he finished Dr. Carson shook his head solemnly, “Washington had fallen last I heard. Half the people here were evacuated from the area, the other half came on their own.” Carson looked over at the crowd of children around Lou, eyes thoughtful, “It’s a waste of your time, going there.”

Paul felt like he’d been punched in the gut, and he couldn’t speak for a few minutes. He’d already reached the conclusion that he was on a fool’s errand weeks ago, that even if he made it to DC there would be no refuge there, and even if there was he wouldn’t be able to find Carmen or any of the other Quarantine survivors. Washington was just a place to go, a goal, something to keep him moving and stop him from thinking too much. Still, to have it confirmed was a blow. Finally he said, “Fuck.”

“I’m sorry,” Carson said.

“And you didn’t…” Paul looked around at the bustling people of the Hilltop, “You didn’t see my friends pass through here?”

Carson shook his head, “But I haven’t been here that long, me and my brother were working at the FEMA camp before it was overrun. Gregory might know, he’s the guy in charge.”

Paul blinked, as soon as Carson spoke he remembered Rory mentioning a guy called Gregory. He’d just assumed this calm, level-headed guy who introduced himself as “doctor” was the boss. “Oh, you’re not in charge here?”

The question seemed to surprise Dr. Carson, he shook his head and said, “The medical trailer is the only part of Hilltop I’m in charge of. And I share that with my brother.”

“Is Gregory here?” Paul asked, looking around at the busy workers. He saw a few directing some of the workers, they looked like possible candidates.

“Gregory?” Dr. Carson said, the corner of his mouth turning down, “No, he’s in the house. Come on, I’ll take you to him.”

******

Gregory turned out to be a tall, balding guy with grey hair and the oily veneer of a used car salesman. When Dr. Carson led Paul into the man’s study Gregory was standing in front of a window with a glass of scotch in one hand watching people work. He jumped and fumbled with his drink when Carson called his name. 

“Jesus Christ, Harlan, you almost gave me a heart attack.” His eyes took in Paul and passed over in disinterest. “Something the matter?”

Carson shook his head, “No, just wanted to introduce Paul Rovia. He’s new, Rory found him. He came all the way from Georgia by himself.”

“Oh,” Gregory said, giving Paul a distracted nod, “Welcome to the Hilltop, Pat. Feel free to stay, but everyone works here. We’re trying to raise crops, become _sustainable._ Go talk to Alan, he’ll show you what work needs to be done.”

Paul stared at him. “Uh,” he said, “thanks, but I don’t intend to stay for long. I’m looking for some friends of mine, they were headed to DC. Their names are Carmen and Justine. Carmen’s young, in her twenties. Hispanic, black hair and brown eyes, really pretty. She has a son, he’s still a baby. Justine’s in her sixties, white, tall…tall as you are, I think…” Paul trailed off. Gregory’s eyes had a glazed over look, clearly not paying attention, or only paying attention just enough to wonder why Paul was still talking. He swallowed his irritation and continued, “They would have been with a convoy of soldiers and some civilians.”

“No soldiers came this way,” Gregory said dismissively. “Listen, Pete, if you’re not planning to work here then I’m not sure what more we have to discuss—“

“It’s _Paul,”_ he said, “My friends used to call me Jesus, though. If that’s easier to remember.”

“Jesus,” Gregory said, giving him a smile, “If you change your mind you are welcome at the Hilltop. Now, if you’ll excuse me I have a lot of work that needs done. This place won’t run itself.”

“ _Gregory,”_ Carson said, exasperated, “he came from Georgia. By _himself.”_

Gregory stared at Carson like the man had started speaking Swahili. He opened his mouth, “Yeah…you said…oh. _Oh.”_ Gregory turned back to Jesus, showing him more interest than he had so far. “So you made it alone? That’s surprising.” he was studying Paul with unflattering disbelief.

“I had my dog,” Paul said, “and I can take care of myself.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Gregory said, distracted. He was now looking at Paul almost covetously, “Listen, Jesus…if you’re planning on looking for these friends of yours, if you think they’re in the area…well we need supplies here, at the Hilltop. If while you’re searching you want to come back, bring us some stuff…well, we’ve got food here. A place to rest.”

“Especially if you’re headed toward DC,” Carson said, “I know there were a few FEMA camps on the way, some might not have been raided. We could use medical supplies more than anything.”

“Winter is coming too,” Gregory said, in that sleazy used car salesman voice, “Winters in this part of the state…well, I’m guessing they’re nothing like what you’re used to down there in Georgia.”

Paul fought the urge to roll his eyes. After most of his life in the midwest he thought he could handle what Virginia had to throw at him. He knew what it was like to be cold, he knew what it was like to be hungry. As soon as that thought crossed his mind he could almost hear Daryl’s exasperated growl, _Yeah, yeah, and you walked in snow drifts ten feet deep uphill both ways, Southerners are weak and panic over a single snowflake, ain’t you just one special asshole. Why put yourself through all that bullshit if you don’t have to?_

 _Because it’s somewhere to go,_ Paul mentally replied to that imaginary Daryl, _something to help me forget you’re gone. Only I never forget._

Carson and Gregory both were still staring at Paul eagerly, although Carson was able to do it in a far less creepy manner. “Don’t you have people already to make runs for you?” Paul asked. With that many people there _had_ to be somebody.

Gregory coughed and said, “Well, most of the people here…we haven’t had to deal with some of the things you have. Don’t get many roamers out here, and most of the folks here came from the FEMA camps. Those were pretty well guarded, until…”

“We had a few runners,” Carson interrupted, “One never came back. One came back, but he’d been bit and just came back to say goodbye to his wife.”

“Think about it!” Gregory said eagerly, “But feel free to stay for now. For the night at least.”

Paul studied Gregory and wondered how this guy had gotten put in charge. He glanced out the window at the workers toiling away with the crops and with the makings of a fence. He thought of how nice it would be to sleep somewhere warm and safe for a night or two or even more. _Not forever, though, there’s no reason to get attached to another place that you’ll leave eventually._ But there was no risk of _that_ happening, not really. Especially if he went out as a scout, if he did that he could come and go as he pleased.

“Food and rest sounds good,” Paul answered, and both Carson and Gregory looked pleased.

******

Dinner was served to everyone on long benches outside. Everyone except for a few of the children, they were served inside at the kitchen table. Because he was new and interesting it was decided that Paul deserved that honor as well. There were three cooks, but the one who seemed to be in charge was a woman called Katherine. “ _Miss_ Katherine, or Miss K,” she informed Paul when she introduced herself. She was short and stout and gave orders in a stern voice, sounding a bit like a drill instructor when she ordered both Paul and the children to wash their hands and faces before sitting down at the dinner table. There were four of them—Paul’s new friend Rory; Maisie, the solemn-faced girl who had been the first child to pet Lou; and two little boys who looked like twins named Micah and Caleb. The rest of the children ate outside, with their parents.

Paul stared at the faces of the children at the kitchen table and felt a hollowness open up in his chest. Even if it weren’t the end of the world Paul would have recognized fellow orphans. The gruff way Miss Katherine ordered the children to sit with their elbows off the table was familiar as well. Growing up Paul had a number of care takers that ran the gamut from ones that acted almost like a parent to ones that were fucking monsters. The ones Paul preferred were like Miss K—no bullshit or pretense, cared about her charges but didn’t encourage closeness. He always knew where he stood with people like that.

He found that out right away, when he came into the kitchen with Lou trotting at his heels he received a hell of death glare from Katherine. “What,” she said, “is _that?”_

Oblivious to her hostility Lou grinned a doggie grin and wagged her tail.

“Please Miss Katherine,” Maisie piped in before Paul could answer, “can the doggie eat dinner with us?”

Katherine gave Maisie a disproportionately astonished look at the question. She recovered quickly,pulling herself together and asking Paul, “Does she know how to behave herself? I won’t have a begging dog at my table.”

“She’ll stare at us through the whole meal but knows better than to get too close,” Paul replied. Daryl was another one who hated having a begging dog at the table, and it drove him insane whenever Paul would sneak her a scrap of food during dinner. _Put it in her dang bowl, she needs to know not to beg._

“Then I reckon the she can stay for dinner. Come on.”

Lou hadn’t forgotten all of her manners in the past few months since the world ended. She flopped down on the floor out of the way but still visible, staring mournfully at the table.

Paul couldn’t say he blamed her, when the scent of _real_ food hit him his stomach cramped and saliva squirted into his mouth. It was stupid to not realize how _starved_ he’d been, living on nothing but shit out of cans and jerky or the occasional thing he caught and killed himself. Miss K put a large pot in the center of the table and took the lid off to reveal chicken and dumplings with a few veggies thrown in. It took all of Paul’s self control to not start tearing into it right away. Miss K’s glare helped with that, she had pale grey eyes that gave off the impression she could read his mind.

“Children,” she said, and stretched out her hands. The kids immediately quieted and linked hands. On Paul’s right side Maisie held a hand out expectantly, and on his left Rory did the same.

“Oh,” Paul said, “Right.” He took both children by the hand and they all bowed their heads.

“Lord,” Miss K said, “thank You for this food, for rest and home, and for all things good. For wind and rain and the sun above. But most of all for those we love. Amen.”

“Amen,” the rest of them chorused, Paul’s voice barely audible. He’d never been religious, and during the rare times he was at a table when someone gave a blessing he would politely fold his hands and wait for them to finish. It wasn’t so much a protest as it felt… _disrespectful_ to parrot words he didn’t mean to a god he didn’t believe in. But these days he found he didn’t care as much, he was desperate enough to say words on the off chance _someone_ was listening. Celestial insurance.

Paul was served first, and his control broke. He didn’t wait for the others to be served, just started eating. The first bite made him whimper a little, the dumplings were thick and chewy and _filling._ Paul had always been a fast eater, a leftover from whenever he ran away from foster care and had no idea where his next meal would come from. Weeks on the road eating nuts, berries, and whatever he could scrounge up made it far worse. He was finished his first serving before the last of the children had gotten their first, and had to fight the urge to lick the bowl clean. He realized everyone was staring at him and he flushed. “Sorry,” he said.

“No one’s going to take it from you,” Miss K said in a surprisingly gentle voice, “Have some more, there’s plenty. Just try to eat the next one slower so you don’t get sick.”

“Yes ma’am,” Paul said automatically, already reaching for the ladle to get some more. While he ate his second bowl he’d recovered enough to actually have a bit of conversation. The kids had all sorts of questions to ask him, and most of them were about his dog.

The kids’ eagerness made him smile at first, then he had to drop his eyes. He’d been an only child until he was orphaned and packed off to McCreary House. Navigating a new dynamic of living with other kids was a challenge and it grew even worse as he got older. The boys his own age started shunning him, sensing on some level what he was even if he was still in the process of working it out for himself. He found himself alone more often than not; until he realized that the younger boys didn’t know any better yet and were just happy to have an older boy be _nice_ to them for a change. He’d _liked_ it, the warm big brother feeling he got when they came to him for advice or to be consoled. Names came to him as he sat at the table, names he hadn’t thought of in years. Sean. Jonathan. Elijah. Tyler. He wondered what became of those boys, if they were still alive they would be all grown up now and Paul wondered if any of them remembered him. This big brother instinct was something he carried over with him to his job at UGA, in charge of a rotating gaggle of students that needed guidance, some of them just as lost and clueless as the little kids at McCreary house.

He and Daryl never talked about having kids, getting a _dog_ had been a terrifying enough commitment to each other. But not long after getting a symbol of that commitment to Daryl permanently tattooed on his body Paul started to _think_ about the idea. Not a baby, not the rigamarole of adoption which in the state of Georgia for two men would be beyond expensive and difficult. Besides, Paul wasn’t even sure if he liked the idea of a baby to begin with. But _fostering_ a kid that was grown past that stage? That thought was appealing. Paul had been in his fair share of foster homes, they never lasted long and more than a few had been terrible. But there he was, in a stable relationship with a good and loving man, someone he knew could help him give a messed up kid like he’d been a refuge. Paul hadn’t gotten very far in his thinking, hadn’t done more than googling laws for foster parents in the state of Georgia, if there were any hurdles for same sex couples and what the process would be like. Not enough to float the idea past Daryl, not yet. He hadn’t been in a rush, figuring that they had plenty of time and he loved the life they already led with just the two of them and their dog.

When the humans were full there was still another bowl’s worth of chicken and dumplings, which Miss K served to Lou. She ate her meal even faster than Paul did, and for a second he thought she was going to immediately puke it up. But she merely tottered a few feet and flopped back on the floor, her legs sticking straight out and her head twisted around to stare at him.

“You look about as tired as your dog,” Miss K said, interrupting Paul’s thoughts. He blinked at her, he hadn’t realized that he hadn’t spoken or really heard the conversation for quite some time.

“I think I’m even more tired,” Paul said, “may I be excused?” He asked the question automatically, some buried part of his subconscious bubbling to life. You had to be excused before you could leave the table, even if you weren’t hungry because the boys across from you were whispering behind their hands and laughing, eyes on your face.

“You _are_ tired,” Miss K said, “go find a place to sleep.”

******

Paul didn’t leave the Hilltop for six days. He spent most of that time resting, eating three square meals, and dealing with Lou’s new fan club. She’d never been happier, so many people to pet her, someone turned up a battered old tennis ball from somewhere and she exhausted herself chasing it. There was a limitless supply of humans willing to throw it for her, when one got tired she just moved on to the next, tossing the ball to ground in front of her newest victim and nudging it with her nose. The only people who refused her were Gregory and Dr. Carson the elder.

On his last afternoon at Hilltop Paul was sitting on the steps of the trailer he’d been staying when Dr. Carson the younger walked up with Lou at his heels. He had her tennis ball in one hand and she was jumping around him eagerly, lowering her front paws into a “play” stance and barking. When the doctor saw Paul he grinned and tossed the ball to him. Paul snatched it out of the air, wincing with disgust when his hand closed around it. After days of play there was more slobber than tennis ball.

Lou had jumped to attention and started chasing the ball when Carson threw it, only to skid to a confused halt when she saw the ball had magically appeared in Paul’s hand. Her tail wagged hopefully as she stared at Paul.

“No, I think you need a break for a bit,” Paul said. To help her out with that he put a foot over the ball to stop her from grabbing it.

“That’s probably a good idea,” Carson said, “The kids have her around for the past hour or so. May I?” he gestured to the empty steps next to Paul, then sat down with a sigh when Paul nodded. At his movement Lou went alert, eyes glued to the tennis ball beneath Paul’s boot.

“No,” Paul said to her, in his best imitation of Daryl’s Dad Voice. His boyfriend had always been better about that than Paul was. Still, he was close enough that Lou lowered her ears and tail and flopped down her belly, wiggling up to the two men on the steps to at least get some ear scratches.

After indulging her in that for a few minutes Carson said, “So…have you made up your mind? About coming back.”

Paul didn’t answer at first, gazing out at the grounds of the Hilltop and watching people work. “I have, yeah. Decided I’d take Gregory up on his offer.”

Carson grinned, “That’s great news.” He shifted a little on the steps, “What are you going to do with her?”

Paul gave him a confused look, “Take her with me, of course. She’s actually more of an asset than a liability, hears walkers coming long before I do.”

“I didn’t mean like that,” Carson said, “I just meant…well, if you every wanted to leave her here that would be ok.”

“Are you trying to steal my dog?” Paul said, raising his eyebrows.

“I’m trying to _borrow_ your dog,” Carson said, then, “The kids love her. She’s been a big help, they’re less stressed. Maisie, she gets nightmares really bad, I’ve had to sedate her more than once. Miss K says she’s been sleeping like a baby this whole week. I’m not saying she’s cured, but…well, our own therapy dog would be nice to have. I’m serious!” he continued when Paul snorted out a laugh, “There have been studies done on how beneficial animals can be for healing process, especially for children—“

“Oh, I believe you,” Paul interrupted, “I worked in a college library, we had a group bring in therapy dogs during finals week. Some students looked like they were about to have a nervous breakdown until they got to pet a dog for five minutes.”

“I could have used that in med school,” Carson said with a smile, “My wife was a veterinarian, it probably would have made things worse for her.”

“Puppies never make things worse,” Paul said sagely.

“I’m not going to try and argue with you on that one,” Carson said, “But yeah, think about it, will you? Leaving her here sometimes?”

A lump formed in Paul’s throat and he looked down to where Lou was stretched out on the grass panting. “She’d pine for me. My boyfriend used to say that whenever I left she’d wait for me at the door for hours.” Paul realized what he’d said, and shot Carson a cautious glance. To his relief the doctor didn’t look surprised or offended by Paul inadvertently announcing his sexuality. Instead he just looked sad.

“I’m guessing he didn’t make it. Your boyfriend, I mean.” Paul shook his head and looked away, unable to speak. After a few beats Carson said quietly, “My wife, she died years before this. Drunk driver. I hate how often I’ve had to give the ‘it gets easier’ speech in the past four months. But it does.”

“I know it does,” Paul said dully. He didn’t say what else he was thinking, which was that he didn’t want it to get easier. He didn’t want to get over Daryl, didn’t want to move on. When he glanced at Carson he saw the other man’s eyes were sad and understanding.

The two men were quiet, but despite the previous conversation it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. After a bit Carson stood and said, “I have some charts I need to look at. Before you leave tomorrow stop by the medical trailer, me and Emmett will give you our shopping list.”

Paul nodded distractedly. Before he left Carson bent down to give Lou a final pat, smiling when she licked his fingers. After he left Paul spent another hour just sitting on the step watching the people of Hilltop work. The wall was slowly shaping into something formidable, something that could actually hold off a swarm of the dead. He thought about Carson’s suggestion that he leave Lou at the Hilltop when he went out, feeling a little guilty. Yes, she _was_ an asset on the road and she _would_ pine for him while he was gone but maybe he was being selfish. Paul knew how goddamned lucky he was to have made it this far relatively unscathed, _knew_ how dangerous it was on the road. Maybe he _should_ leave her there. He glanced down, she’d fallen asleep at some point, tuckered out from her day of entertaining her fans.

In the end he decided to take her with him regardless. Maybe it was selfish, maybe Paul was being an asshole. But Lou had been _his_ therapy dog first, and having her curled up next to him at night made the absence of Daryl’s chest beneath his head easier to deal with.


	19. Daryl: Part X

They buried Beth next to a parking lot a few blocks away from Grady.

They weren’t able to give her a proper funeral. Wasn’t time for that. _Don’t you think it’s beautiful?_ That what she’d said back at the mortuary where they’d taken refuge after the prison fell. She thought it was beautiful, still caring for the dead. Seeing them buried properly. Words said for them. Not tossed in a shallow grave next to an ugly parking lot.

 _I’m sorry,_ he thought as he quickly shoveled dirt over her body, _I wish we could do this better._ Maggie helped him. The two of them threw themselves into the task, shovel after shovel full.

They’d barely filled up the grave when the dead came, and the entire group needed to fight their way out. As they ran Daryl took one last look at the mound of dirt, feeling his heart shatter again. He was learning that no matter how often or badly your heart broke there was always a piece or two left that could do it again. _I’m sorry,_ he thought, then, _you saved my life. I won’t forget._

 _You gotta stay how your are, don’t go back to how you were._ That’s what she’d said to him that night at the whiskey still. They’d been on the run for days, hiding in the trunk of a car one day while a herd passed by, simply collapsing in a field at another point when they physically couldn’t continue. On the third day Beth decided she wanted a drink, come hell or high water. Never had one before. After searching an abandoned country club and turning up nothing but schnapps Daryl lead her to the whiskey still he had found with Michonne months prior.

Two of them ended up getting drunk, playing “never have I ever.” She tried to find out if he’d ever been in jail, and her surprise that he hadn’t caused something inside of him to snap. Old memories came to him—visiting Merle in jail the last time. Paul linking their fingers together and giving him a good luck kiss. A recording saying there were no survivors. Merle telling him that biters got his dog. Stabbing Merle’s walker in the face. Telling Michonne that the trail for the Governor had gone cold, to stop hunting. Telling Carl not to shoot the Governor when he rolled up to the prison with a fucking army.

He broke down into a rage after that, screaming in Beth’s face that everyone she knew was dead, Maggie and Rick and _everyone_ , that it was just the two of them. That he’d stopped looking for the Governor and told Michonne to do the same, that it was his fault. Rick put him in charge, at least partly, had _trusted_ him, and now he was dead and probably the little ones as well. At some point during his tirade she threw her arms around him in a hug, skin hot and face wet. It calmed him, then made him feel like the biggest piece of shit in the world. He’d done the same fucking thing to Carol after Sophia died, lashed out in his own hurt and struck a blow to someone who was hurting far worse. He stood there crying for the first time since everything had happened, her arms tight around him.

They went back into the still after a bit of time. No more moonshine for him, he was a mean drunk. They sat across from each other, lost in their own thoughts. Beth just stared out into the growing twilight, toying with her old mason jar of moonshine. Daryl had his knife out and was stabbing it against the floorboards.

“I understand why my daddy stopped drinking,” Beth finally said.

“You sick?”

She shook her head, “No, I just…I wish I could feel like this all the time. That’s dangerous.”

“You’re lucky you’re a happy drunk,” Daryl said.

“Yeah, I’m lucky,” she replied, smiling a little, “Some people can be real jerks when they drink.”

“Yeah, I can be a dick when I’m drunk,” Daryl agreed, then clarified, “ _Drunk_ drunk, I mean. Paul, he used to say—“ he snapped his mouth shut in horror when he realized what he had just said. It was the first time he’d spoken Paul’s name out loud in over a year, and it had just come out unplanned. He didn’t even have the excuse of still being drunk as he was well on his way to be sober by that point. His throat grew tight, his chest ached, and he had to look down at his knife that he was currently digging into the wood.

“Who’s Paul?” Beth asked quietly.

Daryl shook his head and didn’t answer, digging the knife into the wood again and again. His face was hot and he realized he wasn’t cried out after all.

“Daryl?”

He slammed the knife down, his hands were shaking. _No one,_ he wanted to say, _nobody._ His eyes fell down to his other hand, at the little winged skull tattooed on his finger. More than a year of living rough had faded it a little, especially the wings that curled around the sides of his finger. The rest of it was still clear, the skull itself crisp and black. “My…the guy I was with, before all this,” he croaked out, just as surprised as he was when he first said Paul’s name. He couldn’t figure out _why_ he was telling her this.

“What do you mean…oh,” she said softly, eyes widening as she took in this new information about him. He waited. “I didn’t know…I mean, I didn’t know you were…” she trailed off.

“Queer?” Daryl sneered.

Her pale cheeks turned scarlet, “I was gonna say ‘gay’.”

“Don’t matter what you call it,” Daryl replied.

“I didn’t mean anythin’ bad by it,” Beth said, “You just never said.”

“Never came up,” he replied, then, “I didn’t want to talk about him anyway. I still…” he swallowed and closed his eyes for a moment, “I still don’t. I don’t know why I brought him up in the first place.”

Beth was quiet, studying her mason jar of moonshine for a bit before whispering, “Because you miss him, I guess. Still.”

Daryl felt his eyes burn and he nodded. He hadn’t meant to say anything else but found himself rasping out, “I forgot how much I miss him. When we was at the prison, I mean.” There was more he couldn’t explain. That he’d promised a hallucination of Paul to make it up to him for getting him and Lou killed, that he’d never do it again. And he kept fucking up, starting with Sophia and ending with everyone at the prison.

“What…what was he like? Paul, I mean.”

“He was,” Daryl couldn’t continue for a few moments. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back. He wondered if thinking of Paul in the past tense would ever stop hurting. He cleared his throat, “He was the best thing that ever happened to me. Before him…I was nothin’. Just some redneck asshole. Drifting around, being nobody. He made me better. He thought I was more than that, so I was. Then he died, and…” He couldn’t continue. He couldn’t tell Beth that he forgot that for awhile at first, when he was on the road with Merle. Then Rick had gotten him back on track, and after that he aimed too high.

 _Rick thought I should be in charge, Rick said he couldn’t think of anyone better._ Daryl remembered thinking he didn’t deserve that, and months later he was proved right. They were all _gone_ now, the people he’d saved, people who _counted_ on him. Family he came to love. But he didn’t say that to her, and when he found Rick, Michonne, and Carl a few days later he started to hope again. Then Terminus, then Grady, and burying Beth like a piece of garbage.

_You gotta stay how your are, don’t go back to how you were._

They’d been wrong about him. Paul was wrong that he was worth a damn, was more than some chicken shit bastard. Paul died alone and terrified because of Daryl, the people at the prison had died because he couldn’t see something through, and Beth had died because he’d wanted to take the easy way out.

******

They found the vans during the mad scramble after Beth’s shoddy excuse for a funeral. Enough room in both to fit all of them, and there was only one badly decayed walker trapped by its seatbelt in the second one. Michonne dispatched it with her sword and tossed it out. Despite the musty scent of death half the group piled inside, there was no time for niceties. The only exceptions were Carl and Judith, the former started to climb inside before Michonne steered him to the other van.

They drove east from the city, a direction that Daryl hadn’t been since before the whole thing started. He was in the second van, the one that reeked of death, and even with the windows down it was overpowering. Abraham drove, shoulders hunched over the steering wheel. Daryl dully wondered what his group was doing there, last he knew they were on the way to Washington with that scientist. He didn’t really care enough to ask.

They drove for hours, until they’d left the city behind, heading east, east, east. Memories flickered in Daryl’s mind. Recent ones, like the Governor swinging the sword at Hershel’s neck. The first blow hadn’t been enough to sever his head, he had to strike again and again. Him and Beth finding a pile of bloody clothes that were child sized, recognizing them as belonging to Luke and Molly, two of the children that Daryl had brought into the prison himself. Beth sobbing, Daryl feeling numb. A few nights ago in the halfway house with Carol during their search for Beth, her stretching out on the bottom bunk with him, her face drawn and tired with grief. He told her that they got to start over.

 _Did you? s_ he asked him.

_I’m trying._

They passed a sign for Oakland Cemetery, and Daryl felt a stab of guilt below his breastbone. If he’d been thinking they could have tried to take Beth with them, buried her there. It was a beautiful place, she’d love it. A memory older than the others came to him, Paul dragging him into Atlanta the week before Halloween for a music festival. “Tunes from the Tombs”, set up in the historic cemetery among the mausoleums and weathered graves. Paul with his little digital camera snapping pictures, Daryl ducking out of sight whenever he caught his boyfriend aiming the lens in his direction.

A small noise escaped Daryl’s throat. Carol was sitting on the bench behind him, he felt her hand close over his shoulder. She kept it there all the way through the city, kept it there until they were on the outskirts and they had to stop for the night because the vans were almost out of gas.

Daryl felt like he was just drifting, everything felt unreal. Had it been only two fucking weeks or two years since the day Michonne came back to the prison riding Flame? _That trail went cold,_ Daryl stupidly told her. He’d wanted her to stay for longer than a week, not just because he missed her but for Rick’s sake. His friend was the saddest, mopiest puppy whenever Michonne set out again, Daryl had to hear Rick worry over her for days.

Daryl remembered a conversation he’d had with her another time she’d come back, weeks before that final trip. _We could use you on the Council. Don’t need to keep running off._

The Council. Thinking about how he’d seriously used that title made him feel so fucking stupid. A kid playing make believe. He remembered swelling up with pride when Rick said he couldn’t think of anyone better.

He remembered the rest of the conversation he’d had with Beth that night at the whiskey still, after he told her about Paul and their life together, a simple life that he supposed most would find boring but had been so fucking _happy._ A life that he’d planned on lasting for decades, just the two of them in their little house getting older, until sometime far into the future Daryl would die with Paul sitting at his bedside holding his hand. Or reading to him the way he’d done when Daryl was in the hospital after the motorcycle accident. She’d nodded in understanding then started talking about Hershel.

_I thought—I hoped he’d just live the rest of his life in peace, y’know? I thought Maggie and Glenn would have a baby, and he’d get to be a grandpa. And we’d have birthdays and holidays and summer picnics. And he’d get really old, and it’d happen, but it’d be quiet. He’d be surrounded by the people he loved._

“She was gonna come with me,” Daryl heard Noah say to Rick that night outside of Atlanta. The kid sounded all tore up about it.

 _You should be,_ Daryl thought uncharitably, _she died getting you out._ He didn’t have the energy to hate himself for feeling that way.

Later Rick said something similar, only his words were kinder, saying it was Beth’s last wish, to get him home.

“It’s how we honor her,” Rick said, “It’s a long trip, but if it works out…it will be the last trip we have to make.”

Daryl stopped listening. He didn’t care one way or the other, he’d just go where Rick said to, whether it was to Richmond or someplace twice as far. Rick, Michonne, Glenn, and Tyrese kept discussing the trip, logistics and the route. Daryl moved over to where the rest of the group was gathered, some of them stretching out to rest, some like Abraham and Rosita standing guard. Daryl just sat down in front of the campfire, staring blankly at the flames. He wasn’t sure how long he sat there before Carol dropped down beside him, saying nothing. She just curled up against him, resting her head against his shoulder. After a few minutes he realized she’d fallen asleep. He rested his cheek against the top of her head, some part of him knowing she was hurting just as bad as he was, if not worse. They’d talked a bit about it that night in Atlanta, Daryl tried comforting her but it was just one more thing he’d failed at.

******

The next morning after scavenging up some gas they started the journey to Richmond. Daryl drove the first stretch, despite how little sleep he’d gotten the night before. They’d been able to wash out some of the residue of the dead walker but the van still smelled. On the plus side no one said shit when Daryl lit a cigarette, burning tobacco was perfume in comparison.

They’d only been driving for a few hours when the realization that he knew where they were penetrated his dull haze. South of Watkinsville. In a few miles they would hit 441, and if they took it north it was only another ten or fifteen miles to Athens.

Without realizing he was doing it Daryl had slowed the van down to almost a complete stop. He had no idea why he didn’t think of this before now.

Ten or fifteen miles to the house. He wondered if it was still standing. If was surely by now it had been looted for supplies, surely somebody had found his guns and the supply of food in his truck. Surely they had taken everything of value, let in the wind and the rain.

 _They might not have,_ a treacherous thought whispered, _and if they did take everything else maybe the picture is still there._ Daryl found himself trying to remember the details, it all seemed so foggy and distant. Paul looking at him over one bare shoulder. The smile on his face.

 _I could go look for it,_ Daryl thought, heart thrumming. _Fifteen miles ain’t nothing. Have everyone else wait, or hell tell them he’d catch up to them after._ Just get out of the van, find a different set of wheels, or hell even walk.

He found himself thinking about taking that picture on their trip down to Florida. That was their first anniversary trip and easily the longest ride the two of them took together, nearly eight hours even going the most direct route on the interstate. It was also the first time Daryl had been outside the state of Georgia, and the first time he’d been to the ocean. Years later he looked out at the dinghy grey landscape of a dying world and remembered how _bright_ everything in Saint Pete’s was and how intense the colors were. The sand on the beach outside their rental was white as sugar. A few miles down the beach from them was a palatial hotel that was dusty pink, the same color as the clouds at sunset on their first night in Florida. The waters of the Gulf were shades of green and blue, warm as a bathtub when they waded in on their way to dinner.

That first night they ate dinner at a restaurant on the beach, one of two absurdly expensive meals they had on that trip. Daryl remembered staring at the menu in horror only for Paul to snatch it out of his hands.

“Special occasion, money doesn’t count,” Paul said, “First anniversary.”

“Second,” Daryl protested automatically, although he agreed with Paul about the money. By that time their savings account was actually seeing regular use, and the novelty of being able to spend money and not worry about paying the bills the next week was intoxicating.

The meal was worth it, he didn’t have much experience with seafood but Paul loved it and insisted Daryl try _everything_ he ordered. Raw oysters, which they ate right out of the shell and slid down his throat smooth as butter. A plate of scallops which Daryl didn’t like anywhere near as much, they were just hard little rubbery balls. The main course was a bucket of crab legs, more than the two of them could finish even working together. Getting them out of their shells was a _job,_ carefully cracking them open and tugging out the tender white flesh. Daryl had less experience but was better at it, opening up a few for Paul, watching him dunk it in the melted butter dipping sauce and lick the excess off his fingers. They washed the whole meal down with hurricanes and Long Island Iced Tea, too sweet normally for Daryl’s tastes but that night on the beach he found them crisp and delicious.

After dinner they walked back to their rented beach house. It was dark enough and they were both drunk enough that Daryl found himself slinging an arm over Paul’s shoulders, the other man responded by wrapping one of his around Daryl’s waist. They were exhausted when they reached the rental, only taking the time to rinse the sand off their bare feet before falling into bed. They slept with the windows open, the breeze coming off the ocean was cool and smelled of salt.

The next morning they went swimming just as the sun rose, the water still bathtub warm and the surf so gentle they could just wade out and bob around. After a few hours of that they returned to their beach house, cleaned up, and went on a ride through town. His boyfriend was a nerd who wanted to go to a bookstore, even though he worked at a library and had about fifty books checked out that he still hadn’t read. Daryl understood a little better when he saw the store, it was the biggest bookstore he’d ever seen in his entire life. It took up maybe a third of the entire block, it just kept going and going. Paul was in heaven, bringing armload after armload of books up to the counter until Daryl reminded that they _somehow_ needed to fit them all on the bikes. 

When they got back to the rental Paul went outside to their little patio and sprawled out in one of the chairs. Daryl joined him after a few minutes, staring out across the beach to the distant ocean.

“You should put on some sunscreen,” Paul said, “You’re getting a little pink.”

“So’re you,” Daryl said. They hadn’t bothered that morning when they went swimming, it was early enough and the sun was low enough that they weren’t that worried.

“Already put some on,” Paul replied, “Need a little help with my back, though.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively as he said that, making Daryl smirk. His eyes fell to the end table next to Paul’s chair, his little digital camera was there. Without stopping to think Daryl picked it up and turned it on, pointed it at Paul and snapped a quick picture. Daryl glanced down at the little view screen, he wasn’t much of a photographer but he didn’t need to be, not when Paul was looking at him like that. Daryl set the camera back down carelessly then bent down to kiss him, feeling Paul wind his arms around his neck. He hadn’t been planning on starting something, the day before they were both sore and tired from their ride that sex wasn’t on their minds. But after a lazy day of swimming and wandering through a bookstore Daryl’s libido had decided it was done taking a break. If the eagerness with which Paul responded was any indication he felt the same. After a few minutes kissing with the intensity building Daryl braced himself then picked Paul up off the chair, staggering a bit on his feet when he stood up.

“Fuck,” Paul said, breaking away from his mouth in surprise. “You’re going to throw your back out one day doing that, old man—“

“Fuck you,” Daryl replied, tottering back inside to the bedroom.

“Promises, promises,” Paul said, digging his teeth into Daryl’s earlobe. It made his knees tremble, made him stumble the last few feet to the bed.

Years later Daryl would remember making love on crisp sheets as white as the sand of the beach outside, remembered the sound of the waves, the smell of salt from the ocean and coconut from the sunscreen Paul had slathered all over himself. Remembered dozing in bed after, their arms and legs in a tangle.

“Daryl? Sweetie, are you ok?” Carol’s hand was on his arm. He was stopped in the middle of the road in a van south of Watkinsville fifteen miles from his house, the closest he’d been to it in over a year.

Daryl swallowed and looked down at the tattoo on his ring finger. That picture of Paul was probably long gone. Even if no one raided the house over the past year surely the weather had gotten in; Daryl imagined the picture faded away to almost nothing after being in the sun too long.

He forced himself to start the van, “I’m fine,” he rasped out. Florida had been a long time ago, a bizarre dream that he could barely believe had happened to him. A fluke. He thought of again of conversation he’d had with Beth when they were at the still, her saying that he seemed built for this world.

 _I’m just used to things being ugly,_ had been his response to that.

Better to remember that. Better not to think of the times in his life that had been beautiful, like waking up to eyes the color of sea glass, or people smiling at him and thanking him for saving them, or Beth singing at the piano when they were at the mortuary.nHe recognized the lyrics to one song, one of Paul’s nerd rock anthems that he used to sing in the shower, _The lengths that I will go to, the distance in your eyes, oh now I’ve said too much…_

Daryl kept driving the van. Crossed over 441 without slowing down or even looking at the stretch of road that would lead him north.

******

Weeks later they reached Richmond and Rick took a small group with him to scout the place out while the rest of them waited a few miles down the road.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Carol said quietly.

Daryl grunted. He thought she was probably right. He didn’t believe that anyone would still be left in Noah’s home, not after all this time.

A few minutes later the walkie crackled in Carol’s hand. Rick’s voice saying that there was nothing left, everyone in Shirewilt was dead, and they were going to take a look around. Daryl wasn’t surprised, but he still felt his heart sink. Beth had wanted so badly to get Noah there.

“Shit,” Sasha said, wandering down the road a piece with Maggie.

“Bitch nuts,” Abraham growled, following a few paces behind. Daryl saw the same lack of surprise on the rest of the group’s faces. No one had really expected anything to come from Richmond.

Less than twenty minutes after the first transmission the walkie crackled in Carol’s hand again. Rick’s voice again. Frantic and panicked this time, rather than solemn. Tyrese had been bit, they’d amputated his arm, they might have gotten it in time. He’d need help, he was bleeding pretty bad.

 _No,_ Daryl thought, heart sinking in his chest. _Not anyone else, not any more of us, please._ He glanced down to where Sasha was talking to Maggie and Abraham, the latter said something that made her smile a little. It was the first smile Daryl had seen on Sasha’s face since Bob had been killed. She turned and saw Daryl staring at her, the smile slipping away. The walkie crackled in Carol’s hand again as Sasha started walking up to them, her eyes widening when she got in hearing distance.

“What happened?” she said, breathless and starting to grow frantic, “What’s going on?”

******

They were still over sixty miles away from Washington when the second van died. Daryl was almost relieved, all of them had to squeeze into one van hours ago when the first one had died. It stank of their unwashed bodies so bad that Daryl knew he was just imagining the lingering scent of grave rot, but telling himself that made no difference.

They had to go on foot from there. By the third day of walking Daryl was fast approaching the end of his reserves, they all were. The sun beat down mercilessly against their backs, the surrounding land too dry for water or game or any fucking thing. At one point he left the road, saying he was going to look for some game, try and find a trail or anything. Carol insisted on coming with him and he didn’t have the strength to argue.

They weren’t walking long when Carol said quietly, “I think she saved my life.” Daryl didn’t say anything, he knew who she was talking about. “She saved yours too, didn’t she? We’re not dead. That’s what you told me.”

Daryl still didn’t answer, thinking of that conversation. The night they spent together in Atlanta, looking for Beth. Carol withdrawn and pale, Daryl’s heart ached for her. He thought of Lizzie and Mika, the two little girls were surely dead. Carol wouldn’t have left them otherwise; he thought of how she’d been taking care of them at the prison. Thought of Beth crying when they found what was left of Luke and Molly.

“I know you,” she continued, “You need to let yourself feel it.” She brushed some of the hair out of his face, cupped the back of his skull gently and pulled him down so she could kiss his forehead, “You’re going to feel it,” she said confidently, before heading back to the rest of the group.

******

Later that afternoon the group stopped to rest and ere startled by a pack of four dogs. Mangy curs who had once belonged to someone, beneath the dirt Daryl could tell that two of them were purebred dobermans. Before he could do anything Sasha gunned them down.

After a few minutes of silence Rick got up and started gathering firewood. Daryl forced himself to get up, to grab his hunting knife. He stopped to look at one of the dobermans’ collar. There was a name tag that proclaimed the dog was named Roxy, and there was an address and phone number beneath the name, and a second tag informing him that Roxy had her last rabies shot in 2009. Daryl had taken Lou in to the vet for a rabies booster the day after Paul left for Chicago, he remembered proudly calling up his boyfriend that evening to let him know he hadn’t forgotten.

_How’s Chicago._

_Windy. Big. I’m glad I’m just visiting._

_Thought you’d be over the moon being in a proper city for once._

_I miss our house._

Daryl shook himself and got to work, peeling off the doberman’s skin with brutal efficiency. It didn’t matter any more if this had once been someone’s pet, that someone had named her Roxy and probably threw a frisbee for her on warm summer evenings while the fireflies were coming out. Her people were long dead and now she was just another animal, a slab of meat to be consumed.

 _You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed._ Paul’s voice, reading aloud from a kids’ book, one he said was his favorite. He’d read it to Daryl when he was still in the hospital, out of his mind on painkillers and too vulnerable to find it weird, a guy reading him a bedtime story. He just liked the sound of Paul’s voice. Daryl wondered if he had already been in love then; he thought he had. Thought he’d been in love the first time he’d laid eyes on Paul.

******

They took shelter in an abandoned barn that night when the rain came in. Outside Daryl could hear the crash of thunder, Daryl paced restlessly, exhausted but unable to sleep.The wind was blowing so hard that the doors were straining against the chain they’d used to lock them up. Daryl hurried over, grabbed the chain to try and close them up better.

Lightning flashed, and he saw the horde approaching. There were dozens of them, hunched over in the rain.

Daryl didn’t even have the time or energy to shout out a warning, just wrapped the chain tighter and threw his weight against the door. A few seconds later the dead were shoving up against it. Daryl tried to find his voice and call out but he couldn’t, all he could do is dig in his heels as he was pushed inexorably backward.

 _Just give up,_ a treacherous voice whispered. _Lie down. Go to sleep. It will be over soon._

 _No,_ Daryl thought, _no._

A single dead hand slipped through the widening opening of the door. Daryl remembered being in the garage in Athens, the horde of the dead trying to break in. Lou barking and grabbing the hand of one of them, snarling and shaking her head until she ripped the thing clean off.

Maggie was slamming beside him suddenly, adding her weight to his own against the door. She met his eyes, her own wide with terror. He remembered her screaming when the Governor swung the sword at Hershel, remembered her charging out of the woods on horseback and saving Andrea, remembered her collapsing in grief when she saw Beth’s body in his arms.

Sasha was at his other side then, throwing her back against the shuddering barn door. Back at the prison when they were both on the Council she was the one who argued the most, refusing to back down when she had an idea she thought was a good one. She was usually right.

The others were there then, Rick against his side, Glenn next to Maggie, Carol and Michonne on either side of Sasha, the new people Daryl didn’t know well yet—Abraham and Rosita and Tara, even that Priest they’d found and the guy who wasn’t a scientist. Carl.

Outside the wind howled and gibbered, as much a force to be fought as the dead clawing to get inside. Daryl felt his feet slide against the dirt, met Rick’s eyes a few feet away.

 _You being here with us now, that’s everything…You’re my brother,_ Rick said to him the morning after the Claimers. His face was covered in blood still, but his eyes were soft and full of simple and unselfconscious love.

Lightning flashed. Daryl was back in his Daddy’s house on the day Paul told him he loved him. It had been storming almost as bad, he’d gone out in the rain in bare feet to beg Paul to come back inside, when Daryl kissed him he could taste the rain on his skin.

 _You’re going to miss me so bad when I’m gone, Daryl Dixon,_ Beth back at the still, telling him he’d be the last man standing.

The rain continued to pound against the barn door, blending in with the sounds of the dead trying to force their way inside.

 _I lost my little girl, I’m not going to lose you too,_ Carol said to him on the farm way back in the beginning.

Daryl’s arms burned. His bad leg ached, the phantom pain from his long ago accident. So loopy on drugs one night that he asked Paul to read to him. Paul choosing a kid’s book from the motley pile of shit he’d brought for Daryl to read, leaning in close and flipping through pages. _But if you tame me, then we shall need each other. To me, you will be unique in all the world. To you, I shall be unique in all the world…_

Time stopped having any meaning. The storm continued to rage, and the entire group continued to hold the door against the dead. Daryl wanted to give up again after an hour, to just lie down and let whatever happened happen. But he was surrounded by that point, the group on either side as well as against his back. The wind grew impossibly loud, sounding like a freight train roaring through.

Gradually the wind died down, and with it the sounds of the walkers trying to get in. The group began gradually peeling away, staggering off one at a time to collapse in an exhausted heap on the ground. Daryl was the last, slumping against the wall of the barn in a fitful doze. He did not dream.


	20. Paul: Part X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um. Please note the tags, all the tags. Warnings for violence and animals in distress.

Paul reached the Kingdom at dusk, pulling the car up to the gates then flashing the lights before he got out to wait. Vehicles were not allowed inside at the King’s insistence.

“Who seeks admission to the sovereign lands of the Kingdom?” a voice called out from behind the gate. Paul smiled a little, he recognized Daniel’s voice and knew the other man was perfectly aware of who he was.

“It is I, Jesus of the Hilltop, here for an audience with the King,” he called back.

“We are expecting Jesus of the Hilltop, and you have his look. What proofs do you offer for your identity?”

“I’ve brought promised medicinals from far away, and forsooth…damnit Daniel, let me in.”

He heard laughter, then the creak as the gates slid open. Daniel was on duty with Dianne and Jacob, two of Paul’s favorite guards at the Kingdom. Dianne had zero fucks to give when it came to nonsense and as for Jacob the man actually knew how to smile.

“Stop pulling his pigtails,” Dianne said to Daniel reproachfully, then nodded at Paul, “Jesus. Did you make the trip here ok?”

“It went as well as can be expected,” Paul replied as the four of them started unloading the car.

“Aw, you didn’t bring the doggie with you?” Jacob said sadly, “the boys were looking forward to playing with her.”

“Sorry, but after last time I’ve decided on a temporary ban on bringing her here,” Paul explained. He usually left Lou at the Hilltop whenever he visited the Kingdom regardless, the scent of Shiva made the dog lose her complete fucking mind. For a girl who rarely barked unless it was at the dead it was something to see, her straining at the end of her leash barking nonstop while Shiva looked on in regal disdain. Last time Paul brought her she slipped out of her collar and charged, skidding to a stop when Shiva finally acknowledged her with a full on roar.

“The King said Shiva likes your dog,” Jacob said with a cheerful smile, “she’s a pussycat, really.”

“If you say so,” Paul muttered. Ezekiel said the same thing about Paul himself; and he was never sure of the King was just fucking with him or not. His first meeting with Ezekiel’s pet hadn’t been particularly auspicious. It wasn’t Paul’s finest hour, one supremely dumb mistake that almost got him killed.

***********

The Kingdom wasn’t the first settlement he’d found since he began his job as scout for the Hilltop but it was by far the largest. Until he found the Kingdom the biggest of the scattered network of settlements he’d visited on this side of the Potomac had only a dozen people. When it came to those settlements Paul simply introduced himself, asked to be taken to their leader, then told whoever was in charge about the Hilltop. Offered a place for anyone who wanted to come back with him, they could always use help with crops and other work. More than a few had taken him up on his offer and the population of the Hilltop had nearly doubled by the time he found the Kingdom in the early weeks of the winter.

He could tell right away that this settlement was different. Not just due to its size, but by how well provisioned the population seemed to be. Paul watched the settlement from a distance at first, peering through his binoculars. Throughout the day people mounted on horseback and heavily armed came and went in a steady stream, sweeping out to patrol the surrounding area.

Paul watched and waited, debating with himself on whether or not he should just stroll up and introduce himself as he would normally do. The sheer size of the place stopped him, Paul was confident in his abilities to escape a handful of people if things went south but not a group this large. He was grateful he’d left Lou at the Hilltop when he went on this trip, there was no way she would have been able to stay quiet with this many people coming and going. In the end he decided he wanted a better idea of what he was getting into so he waited until dark had fallen then climbed over the wall into the settlement.

Paul slipped quietly through the shadows, remembering what Daryl had taught him about movement and how to remain unseen. The grounds had once been a boarding school, there were still signs pointing toward the dormitories and former classrooms. He saw lights burning in the windows of the dorms, and many more in what had once been the school’s auditorium. Though it was early winter and the air was crisp and cold people were still outside, settled in clumps around several bonfires. The sounds of laughter and music came to him, Paul stopped for a moment to study the people. He saw survivors who were young and old of various races sitting side by side, smiling and talking happily to one another. By one of the bonfires was a girl with a guitar performing for the group, he could just barely make out the lyrics to a Bob Dylan song. “ _Twas in another lifetime, one of toil and blood…when blackness was a virtue, the road was full of mud…”_

 _They seem alright,_ Paul thought to himself. He resolved to look around a bit longer, climb back out over the wall, then introduce himself properly to the guards. Ask to be taken to the leader, start dickering over anything that could be traded. This place was well setup, with plenty of growing space being put to use and a few pens for livestock. He moved on, searching for an armory and the larder. He studied the auditorium, peering cautiously into the windows that were lit up. They were high windows, he had to get up on tiptoes just to look in. He saw that inside was much the same as the outside, people huddled together in what were once classrooms laughing and talking.

Just as he was pulling back from one such window he heard the sounds of laugher approaching, there was a small knot of people headed right in his direction. He looked around frantically, found a window that was a flat black mirror. He hoped against hope that there was no one in there asleep as he carefully pried open the window.

Paul boosted himself up through the window, he could barely fit through, then dropped down into the room.

The first thing he noticed was the smell. One he couldn’t identify but was overpowering and hit some primitive part of his brain that set every instinctual alarm bell ringing. The smell of wild animal, something like he would experience at a zoo.

In the moonlight spilling in from the windows he saw a large, dark shadow glide across the floor. The shadow had gleaming eyes and a line from that poem, “ _Tyger, Tyger, burning bright…”_ came to him before he consciously realized what it was he was seeing.

Which was _a fucking_ _tiger._ There was no mistaking it as it moved into a pool moonlight, Paul could make out its dark stripes against orange fur.

Paul froze, not just in terror but in pure shock. His mind at first refused to believe what he was seeing, part of him thinking it was a statue or anything but what it was. As he stood there trying to make sense of what he was seeing the tiger lowered its front, tail lashing back and forth. The same pose that in a dog meant it wanted to play, but in a cat meant—

Paul didn’t stop to think, he immediately leapt aside just as the tiger pounced. It landed in the empty space that was once occupied by Paul and let out a disappointed yowl as it slid across the floor. It whipped around, tail thrashing, staring at Paul with eyes that glowed green in the moonlight.

Paul’s knees felt like they were made of jelly, he trembled and tried to keep from panicking. He pulled out one of his knives, tossing it from hand to hand.Stabbing the tiger would require getting way too fucking close and god help him if he missed. He briefly considered throwing it, but the tiger moved so swiftly and gracefully Paul didn’t like his chances of hitting it. Fuck, he didn’t like his chances of hitting it if he still had ammo for the Glock, if he didn’t shoot it right between the eyes he had feeling it would just be pissed off.

The tiger lowered itself into a crouch again, tail lashing back and forth. Paul remembered suddenly being back in quarantine, his cellmate Roland turning. He quickly stripped out of his jacket—Daryl’s jacket that he still wore although it no longer held the faint trace of his boyfriend’s scent. He was just in time for when the tiger pounced again to be able to lunge to the side and toss the jacket over the its face. It yowled again, outraged, shaking its head back and forth and clawing at the leather.

Paul didn’t wait for it to free itself, he was running back toward the open window. There was the sound of ripping cloth and Paul knew it had freed itself. He didn’t stop or slow down, just jumped for the window. He grabbed the window sill and pulled himself up. His mind was gone, replaced by the brain of a terrified prey animal about to be ripped apart. He pulled his upper body through the window and there was a moment of searing pain against his right calf as the tiger raked its claws against his retreating legs. He lashed his left leg out, felt it strike flesh, and heard a disgruntled yowl from inside. Then he was through the window and tumbling to the ground outside. He landed on his injured leg and was unable to keep from screaming, he was bleeding all over the fucking place, the blood black in the moonlight.

He could hear shouting coming from the front of the theater, a booming voice calling out, “‘Ware! Stay back, if Shiva has escaped from her confinement only I can subdue her!” Paul tried to scramble to his feet but slipped on his own fucking blood, legs shooting out like a damn cartoon and slamming flat on his back.

There was more shouting, lights, that booming voice calling out orders. A light was shone in Paul’s face, he blinked up dazedly at the figure looming over him. He was a tall black guy with long, greying dreads decorated with a theatrical blue feather. In one hand was a sword that he was currently pointing at Paul’s chin.

“Villain!” he shouted, “I swear by the souls of all our departed kinsmen if you have harmed Shiva I will skewer you here and now!”

“She looks ok to me, your majesty,” a cheerful voice called out. Paul turned his head and saw a huge guy shining a light into the window Paul had just scrambled through. He caught a glimpse of those gleaming eyes, the tiger must be standing on its hind legs, wanting to finish the job it started. “Hey there, S,” the big guy said, drumming his fingers gently against the glass.

Paul turned his attention back to the figure standing above him. _That guy just called him “your majesty”,_ Paul thought to himself. He could see why, there was something regal about his posture. “That is good,” the King said darkly, “Now, tell me forthwith who you may be, and why you have invaded these sovereign lands.”

Paul stared at the King. Black spots were dancing before his eyes, he could feel hot blood pouring out of his leg and hoped the tiger hadn’t hit any vital arteries. “Hi,” Paul said, “I’m Jesus.” His words were a slur, “Um. I think I’m going to pass out,” he said next. A few seconds later he did.

************

They unloaded the medicine Paul had brought in what had once been the school nurse’s office then went to find the King. He was in the gardens with Jerry, his personal steward who Paul met on that first night. 

“Well met, Jesus my friend,” Ezekiel said, “Shiva sends her regards, she is feeling poorly this evening and I have remanded her to her cage. After dinner you must needs call upon her, it will surely be a boon to her spirits.”

“Perhaps,” Paul said, squirming a little. He imagined he could feel the scars on his calf ache. The Kingdom doctor gave him over a hundred stitches to close up the wounds.

Ezekiel gave a small grin, as if he could read Paul’s mind. “Come, my friend! Your arrival is most propitious, tonight is a night of festive merriment, the first harvest of the spring has yielded many fine fruits. We can discuss business later.”

Paul didn’t protest, he was tired from his journey and the citizens of the Kingdom certainly knew how to have a good time even at the end of the world, Ezekiel was a firm believer in “festive merriment”. They ate outside, the air still cool but it was clearly spring and Paul could almost feel the warmer weather coming in the air. The feast itself was magnificent, featuring a dessert made from the fruits of the Kingdom gardens as well as drink—a sweet home-brewed wine made from pomegranates. Paul tried to pace himself when it came to the wine, it was a _lot_ stronger than its sweet taste hinted. The thought of traveling back to the Hilltop in the morning with a hangover was not appealing.

Ezekiel sat by his side most of the evening, regaling him with what news there was to be had since Paul’s last visit. The most significant of which was that Kingdom was planning on expanding.

“We’ve got the site picked out and everything,” Jacob chimed in from Ezekiel’s others side, “About two miles north of here, there’s another school that can be fortified.”

“Indeed,” the King said, “In fact that was one of the most pressing matters of business I wished to discuss with you.”

The King explained that once the territory had been established he was hoping that some people from Hilltop would be interested in joining the new settlement, to help with farming and as a way to strengthen ties between the two communities. Paul thought it was a good idea, when he got back he’d talk to Gregory and the doctors Carson about it. He had a feeling that Harlan wouldn’t want to leave the Hilltop but his older brother Emmett might be persuaded to act as the new community’s doctor.

As Ezekiel elaborated on his plans, Paul thought wistfully that it was a shame that Gregory wasn’t half the leader that Ezekiel was. True, the man was batshit insane with his whole “King” act but the rest of the Kingdom survivors were happy to play along, and it was serving them well. They were thriving a good deal more than the Hilltop was; they were managing to sustain and protect themselves and had also managed to begin enjoying some of the more “frivolous” aspects of life. They had movie nights, a choir, and held feasts to celebrate the victory that was a new crop. They laughed more, helped each other more, and just seemed connected to each other in ways that people at the Hilltop didn’t.

Although that last bit was something Paul was glad the Hilltop lacked. He imagined that if he lived at the Kingdom detaching himself would have been difficult. As it was Paul had no trouble leaving the Hilltop, for every day he spent at his own settlement he spent ten scouting the surrounding the areas.

The meal was winding down. Ezekiel took his leave, saying he was going to see to Shiva. Jacob left to check on his two sons, and Paul found himself alone. He didn’t mind; Polly, the best singer in the Kingdom, had brought out her guitar and started to play. The corners of Paul’s lips quirked when he recognized the same Bob Dylan song he’d overheard his first night in the Kingdom. _“Come in, she said, I’ll give you shelter from the storm…”_

Polly had just finished her song and moved on to another when Daniel dropped down in the empty chair next to him, giving him a lazy smile.

“It’s good to see you,” Daniel said, “How long are you planning on staying?”

“Just until the morning,” Paul replied as he shifted uncomfortably under Daniel’s piercing stare. He thought of what Dianne had said when he first arrived, accusing Daniel of “pulling his pigtails”. He’d gotten that vibe from Daniel before, felt the other man’s eyes wandering over his body on previous trips to the Kingdom and Paul ignored it each time. That night it was harder than normal, whether it was because of the wine he’d drunk or just the general air of festivity.

“That’s a shame,” Daniel said, plucking an uneaten strawberry off of Paul’s plate and popping it into his mouth, licking the tips of his fingers as he did so.

Paul flushed and looked away from the other man’s mouth. Daniel _was_ handsome, incredibly so. Tall, well-built, with strawberry blond hair and bright blue eyes. The kind of guy that once upon a time Paul would have been all over. “Well, I’ll be back before you know it,” Paul said stupidly. Before he could finish talking Daniel shifted in his seat, moving so his thigh was pressed against Paul’s own.

“Will you still be playing hard to get next time?” Daniel asked, clearly done with subtlety.

Paul swallowed and tried to control his racing heart. He hadn’t had sex with a stranger in years, since before he and Daryl got together. Not that Daniel was a _stranger_ exactly; Paul was just out of practice. He raised his eyes to Daniel’s face, the other man was staring at Paul like he was feast and he hadn’t eaten in days. “I don’t play hard to get,” he said evenly.

Daniel made a contemplative noise, then said, “So…just not interested, then?” He sounded skeptical, for good reason. Because fucking hell, Paul was interested. It had been so long since he’d had sex, not since the morning nearly eight months ago when he left for Chicago—

He dropped his eyes and pushed that thought away. He didn’t want to think of his last time with Daryl. Or any other time, for that matter.

“I didn’t say that,” Paul said, fighting to keep his voice from trembling, he shifted and met Daniel’s eyes, “It’s just been awhile for me.”

Daniel gave a snort, “No shit. It’s not like we’ve got a lot of options these days.”

“It’s not just that,” Paul said, dropping his eyes again. He took a breath and said, “I was with someone. _Before._ For years.”

“What happened to him?” Daniel said, although by the tone of his voice he already knew. A familiar story these days, Paul knew he was hardly unique.

“He’s dead,” Paul said flatly, “Died at the beginning of all this.”

“I’m sorry,” Daniel said. He sounded sincere.

Paul stared out at the rest of the Kingdom, people were laughing and talking, Polly had started a new song. When Paul heard the lyrics he thought she could have chosen something less morbid.

“ _Cold blows the wind to my true love_

_And softly falls the rain_

_I only had but one true love,_

_And in Green Woods he lies slain…”_

_“_ Yeah,” Paul said, “I am too,” he hesitated then said, “I’m not…after him, I don’t really want anyone else. I mean, for a relationship.” Fuck, he used to be better about this. About stating that he was up for sex and nothing else. “I mean, I didn’t really do relationships _before._ He was the exception.”

Daniel took that in, eyes assessing him, “Heartbreaker, huh? Yeah, I believe that.”

An old memory from a couple of lifetimes ago came to Paul, Tim on the phone telling him that he had a block of ice where his heart should be. “I’m just being honest.”

In the silence that ensued he could hear the Polly’s voice clearly, the lyrics still morbid, 

“ _My lips they are as cold as clay,_

_My breath smells earthy strong_

_And if you kiss my cold clay lips,_

_Your days they won’t be long…”_

 

“Gotcha,” Daniel said. He shifted in his seat, “I get it, I do. Besides, you live in another settlement. I was never one for long distance, even _before.”_

 _“_ So we’re clear, then?” Paul answered.

“Crystal.”

“Ok,” Paul said, and before he could talk himself out of it pushed his chair back and got to his feet, “Where’s your bedroom?”

Daniel blinked and shook himself, scrambling to his feet and gesturing for Paul to follow him. Paul waited until they were out of sight in the shadows of the dormitories before he stepped forward, turned Daniel to face him, then pulled him down for a kiss. He refused to be hesitant despite how strange it was. There was no taste of cigarettes, no vague scent of motor oil, and Daniel was a good deal taller than Daryl had been.

“Jesus,” Daniel breathed out when they broke apart for air.

“Yeah?” Paul replied, “That’s my name-“

Daniel cut him off with another kiss, swallowing the rest of Paul’s smartass reply. When they pulled apart again Daniel was flush and his hair was sticking up all over, clothes in disarray. Paul was pretty sure he didn’t look much better. “My room is just upstairs.”

“Then by all means lead the way.”

They didn’t talk much after that. When they reached Daniel’s room the only words they spoke were negotiating positioning and requests for specific acts. It was good, Paul felt his thoughts melt away completely for the first time since seven months ago when he finally admitted to himself that Daryl was dead. Afterward they lay in bed dozing; Paul on his stomach and Daniel on his side with his palm against Paul’s ass. He felt dreamy and wonderful, endorphins flooding through his system.

It didn’t last.

Paul woke up after maybe an hour’s worth of sleep. There was a moment of jumbled and confused memories before his groggy mind registered the warm body in the bed next to him. An arm was slung casually across Paul’s lower back, and he had a piercing thought, _why is Daryl sleeping on his side,_ before he remembered where he was and who he was with.

_Oh._

He slid out from underneath Daniel’s arm and rolled over to the edge of the bed. Stretched out on his back and stared up at the dark ceiling, tucked his right hand behind his head. So he guessed that this was what they called “moving on”. He almost laughed. Instead he glanced down at where his left hand was resting against his chest, studying the little winged skull tattooed on his finger. It was his first and only tattoo, Daryl had several. A demon tattooed on his bicep, a little star on his right hand, a snake on his left leg. Two demons twisting across his right shoulder blade in a space framed by scars. Paul had asked about that tattoo the first time they slept with each other, the first time he saw the scars.

He’d _felt_ the scars before he saw them, when they were tangled together that first time, Paul running his hands down Daryl’s bare back greedily. He felt the ridges of scar tissue but didn’t really dwell on them, too lost in what they were doing and barely registering Daryl’s flinch. It wasn’t until later that Paul got a good look, when Daryl climbed out of bed to stumble to the bathroom. The storm had passed and late afternoon light came through the blinds and lit up Daryl’s skin in tiger stripes. Daryl froze mid step at the sound of Paul’s soft gasp. Paul could see understanding in every line of Daryl’s posture, the way his head dipped down and his shoulders curled in a little, fingers jittering against his thigh. Paul’s voice froze in his throat, he knew he needed to say something, but before he could Daryl practically ran out of the room.

Paul stayed in bed, body tense and jaw clenched. He wondered if he should go after Daryl, or just leave him be for a minute. He had just made up his mind to go after him when he heard the toilet flushing and a few minutes later Daryl was padding back into the room. His shoulders were still hunched and he didn’t meet Paul’s eyes when he slid into the bed, rolling over onto his back and staring at the ceiling.

“Did your dad do that?” Paul found himself asking.

Daryl flinched and gave a tight little nod. Paul stared at his profile, rage and sorrow twisting through his insides. Daryl hadn’t said much about his dad, just enough for Paul to know the guy was an asshole who didn’t deserve having a kid like Daryl. That he’d “beat the hell outta” both Daryl and Merle. Paul tried to think of something to say that wasn’t _I’m glad he’s dead_ or _I wish he were alive just long enough for me to kick his ass._ He took a deep breath and said, “Do you want me to…did you mind when I touched them?” He was thinking of that brief flinch earlier when he ran his hands over Daryl’s well-muscled back.

Daryl shook his head, a muscle in his jaw twitching.

“Ok,” Paul said, still not sure what to say.

To his surprise Daryl spoke, “Don’t gotta make a big deal outta it. I know…” he swallowed, “I know what they look like.”

“I’m not…I mean, I just don’t want you to think I…” he struggled to think of what to say, “I like looking at you,” he finished lamely, “You don’t have to hide them.” Daryl made a noncommittal noise and still wouldn’t meet Paul’s eyes, not until he reached out and took the other man’s cheek in one hand tilted his face toward him. “I mean it,” Paul said quietly, and leaned forward to kiss him.

A few minutes later Daryl was lying on his stomach, breath ragged while Paul explored his back. He wasn’t focused on the scars in particular, just the lines of muscle and the breadth of his shoulders. His eyes fell on the tattoo of the two demons(or angels? Paul couldn’t tell) and he reached out to trace it with his fingertips, “I like your tattoo,” he murmured softly.

Daryl snorted, “You like shitty homemade tats?”

“When they’re on you, yeah,” Paul replied. He debated asking the next question, but in the end decided he wanted to know, “I am kinda surprised you got it, though. Why did you?” He didn’t need to explain what he meant by being surprised.

“Got it when I was a teenager,” Daryl said, “Merle was in the clink, I was still livin’ with our Daddy. One night me ’n him was drinking and we got in a fight. He tried giving me a whuppin’ but he was so old and drunk I just pushed him over and walked out. Ended up at the house of one of Merle’s buddies. He’d just gotten a tattoo gun and wanted to practice, I was so drunk and het up I let’m. Sort of as a big ‘fuck you’ to the old man,” Daryl snorted, “I’m lucky I didn’t end up with a swastika or some other bullshit.”

Paul frowned and traced a finger over the little demons, disappointed that the guy who made them was apparently an asshole. Paul liked them, he liked all of Daryl’s tattoos, even if all of them looked like they were, in Daryl’s words, “shitty homemade tats”. That was part of the appeal; there was something sweet and…not _childlike,_ but…simple? Unpretentious? Something, Paul couldn’t quite pin down the correct descriptor. “Yeah, that wouldn’t be as sexy,” Paul admitted, “What?” Daryl had started squirming uncomfortably in the sheets.

“Nothin’,” he said, burying his face in the pillow, then, “I know it ain’t… _sexy…”_

 _“_ The hell it _ain’t_ ,” Paul responded, “But I think all of you is sexy, so I’m biased.”

“Stop,” Daryl said.

“What? You don’t believe me? I think I’ve provided _ample_ demonstration that I find you sexy—“

Daryl shifted to his side threw his pillow at Paul’s face, “Shut up. _God.”_

Even if Daryl had trouble believing him Paul was sincere. He loved Daryl’s tattoos, thought they were sexy as fuck, and so when their third anniversary came around and the idea of getting matching tattoos developed organically he was all for it. He had a few reservations about getting them it a place as visible as his finger, but he got over them almost immediately. He worked in a library and despite outdated stereotypes about humorless spinsters in cardigans his coworkers were all pretty chill when it came to things like that. More than a few had visible tattoos of their own; Kate,his favorite coworker, had blue ivy winding around one bicep and the call number for her favorite book (PR4726 .W5 1908) in Victorian script around the other.

Paul and Daryl got their tattoos in April, a few months before their actual anniversary in June (or August, going by Daryl’s reckoning). Paul thought it was because of his trip to Chicago, Daryl wanted to be sure to mark him first. It didn’t matter; up until he rolled over and saw Daniel he hadn’t regretted the decision to get tattooed.

Thing is, he could’ve taken off a wedding ring when he decided fuck someone else. He couldn’t take off a tattoo, and that made it so much harder to pretend that he’d _moved on._ Not that he thought he really had, he just wanted…something. A distraction, something physical. And it had been good. Not as good as it had been with Daryl, he knew it would never be that good with anyone again.

In the dark lying next to a man he barely knew Paul sighed and unwillingly thought back to how sex had been with Daryl. In a way it had been as new and exciting for Paul as it had been for the other man. A learning experience for them both, Paul discovered how _good_ it was to fuck someone who knew every detail of him inside and out.

_************_

They hadn’t been _together_ together long before Daryl shyly brought up the idea of moving in and Paul surprised himself by saying yes. Daryl practically lived with him anyway by that point, only driving back to Sedalia a few nights a week for his part-time job at a gas station. Paul hated those nights, he was getting used to falling asleep with his head against Daryl’s shoulder and _very_ used to having sex almost every night. Paul was finally able to talk Daryl into quitting and looking for a job closer to Athens after Daryl proposed the whole “living together” thing. He’d have to do it anyway, Paul argued, and if he had a job in town it would make house hunting easier.

Which was why one morning instead of lounging in bed Daryl was sitting at the kitchen table under Chaz’s watchful glass eyes, glaring at Paul’s laptop and slowly pecking at the keys. After awhile of that he muttered, “This is bullshit. Why can’t I just use a pen and paper?”

Paul set the dishes he was washing aside then sidled up behind him and looked over his shoulder. Daryl had managed to fill out his name and address in the job application and not much else. He fought the instinct to tease Daryl about his ignorance of computers; he knew it was a result of the extreme poverty the man had lived under his entire life. “Because this is the future. What are you having trouble with?”

“Keeps saying my email address is wrong,” he answered, squinting at the computer screen. 

“You left a period out, see?” Paul said, pointing to where Daryl had typed in daryldixon@gmail.com. “You need a period after your first name.”

“Oh,” Daryl said, fidgeting in embarrassment. Paul had been the one to set up the email address, Daryl didn’t have one and they were necessary for online job applications. He started typing before realizing he was in the wrong field, then fiddled with the trackpad, swearing under his breath. Paul reached around his shoulder and deftly moved the pointer to the correct space and added the period himself.

“You’ll get the hang of it,” Paul said, kissing Daryl’s cheek.

Daryl grumbled, fingers going back to the trackpad. Paul resolved to get an actual mouse for his boyfriend to use in the future. The resolve strengthened when Daryl fumbled and the pointer went wild, accidentally clicking on the bookmarks folder and opening a random link. Daryl let out a startled noise and jerked his hands back from the computer.

A black screen flashed up, followed by a picture of a naked man with his legs spread wide and flashing red letters saying the site was only for people eighteen and over.

“Shit!” Paul said, leaning over Daryl’s shoulder again to close the window, “I got a virus from this site, I thought I deleted the link.”

When Paul looked at Daryl’s face he saw that the other man was vaguely scandalized. “What was that?” he sputtered out.

“Um. Porn?” Paul said, “Porn that gave me a virus, I’ve learned since then. Only download from certain sites, install anti malware—“ Daryl’s eyes were glazing over, so Paul quickly finished with, “Anyway, now there’s just stuff in my porn folder.”

“You’ve got a porn folder?” That scandalized expression again.

Paul raised his eyebrows, “Um. Yeah? Didn’t you watch porn?”

Daryl shrugged and fidgeted a little, “Not really. Just when I watched it with some buddies, I never really liked it.”

“You watched porn with your buddies? Your buddies showed you porn? That sounds gay to me,” Paul said.

Daryl’s ears went pink and he ducked his head, “It was porn with girls. Never really did much for me.”

“But you still watched porn together. Did you just point and laugh at each other’s boners or something?”

“It was just stuff like at parties and shit, on in the background. Gay guys don’t do that?” Daryl asked, a little uncertain.

“Sometimes, but we’re ok with the idea of maybe having sex with each other after,” Paul replied. Straight men were so fucking weird.

Daryl chewed on his lip, “What kinda…” he stopped himself, he was red all the from his cheeks down his neck.

Paul raised his eyebrows, pulse starting to speed up. “What kind of porn do I watch?” Paul asked, trailing his fingers down Daryl’s arm. The other man didn’t answer, just fidgeted some more, so Paul continued, “Do you want to watch some?”

“Right now?” Daryl said, voice a little high.

“If you want,” Paul responded, running his fingers against Daryl’s arm again, “I know I said I wanted you to finish those job applications, but maybe you could use a break.”

“I got you, what do I need to look at porn for?” Daryl muttered.

Fuck, this man was too much sometimes. If anyone else said that to Paul he’d want to puke, but instead it was his turn to squirm with embarrassment. “It can be fun,” Paul said, “Sexy.”

Daryl drummed his fingers against the keyboard, eyes flicking between Paul’s face and the computer screen. Finally he said, “I could use a break.”

Paul grinned at him and said, “Scoot back.” Daryl obeyed, pushing the kitchen chair back far enough that Paul could squeeze in and sit on his lap. If they were going to watch porn together they were going to do it right.

Daryl didn’t seem to have a problem with it, he let out a squeaky breath when Paul settled down, winding one arm around Paul’s middle. Paul smiled, pulled up his porn folder, and scrolled through the videos. After a brief consideration he chose one that if he remembered right was pretty vanilla, no need to give Daryl a heart attack right off the bat.

The video started—two guys in bed, both built, one with tattoos and dark hair and the other scruffy and blond. They started kissing slowly, the blond slid the covers down and took the other man’s dick in hand, stroking it lightly.

Behind him Daryl took in a breath and fidgeted. Given that his dick was wedged against Paul’s ass it was easy to tell that he was already being affected by what he was seeing. Despite that he just muttered, “We can do this, don’t see why we’re watching someone else do it.”

“Mmmm,” Paul grumbled, tilting his head back so he could see Daryl’s face, “Patience.”

Daryl mumbled something inaudible. On the screen the blond guy was sucking his partner’s dick, head bobbing up and down. Paul squirmed a little in Daryl’s lap, it was a hot video. No cheesy music or forced dialog, just two gorgeous guys going at it. Behind him he felt Daryl start breathing faster. Paul smiled, he didn’t think they would be watching for much longer. He was about to turn and kiss Daryl when on the computer screen the blond pulled off his partner’s dick then flipped him over on his stomach, spreading his legs before diving in.

Daryl made a surprised little noise and Paul felt him go still before he blurted out, “Do guys actually _do_ that?”

Paul laughed, “Well, yeah.”

“We ain’t never done it,” Daryl said accusingly.

It was Paul’s turn to be uncomfortable, “Oh. Err. Do you want to try it sometime?”

“Do you like it?” Daryl asked. No, _interrogated._

“I mean, it feels good, but…” he trailed off awkwardly. The truth was Paul could take rimming or leave it, and he left it more often then not. 

On the computer screen the guy getting rimmed was squirming and moaning, biting into his own bicep. Paul felt Daryl’s arm tighten around his midsection, then without warning he was grabbing Paul’s dick through his boxers. Paul jumped and let out a startled yelp.

“What?” Daryl asked.

“A little _warning,_ maybe,” Paul said, trying to get his heart rate back under control.

“Since when do you require warnings?” Daryl snorted. He hadn’t let go of Paul’s dick, if anything his grip had tightened. “And I thought that’s why we were watching’ this shit.”

“You startled me, is all,” Paul said. He was already on his way to getting hard from the porn and from Daryl’s _reaction_ to the porn, and his hand on Paul’s dick was getting him the rest of the way there. His eyes fluttered shut and he leaned back with a sigh.

The noises from the porn were abruptly cut off as Daryl snapped Paul’s laptop closed. Paul twisted in Daryl’s lap, leaning back so he could kiss him, hard and fierce. When he broke away Daryl pushed them both up and off the chair then they stumbled into Paul’s bedroom, shedding clothes the entire way.

“I need a new bed,” Paul said when Daryl pushed him down. The damn thing creaked with every single movement, his neighbors must have fucking hated him since Daryl had started coming around.

“It’ll hafta wait,” Daryl growled, sliding his way down Paul’s body, licking his chest on his way to Paul’s groin then taking him into his mouth. Paul’s head fell back against the mattress, a strangled cry escaping his mouth. Daryl was getting _good_ at this; he’d come a long way from the first clumsy weeks of their physical relationship. Paul hadn’t _minded_ the clumsiness, Daryl’s inexperience was outweighed by the sheer joy and awe with which he made love. But now that he was getting the hang of things it was something else, something that caught Paul off guard and made him feel like his control was slipping away. Daryl was _observant,_ was the thing. Paul knew that already, but it never occurred to him that the same skills Daryl used to spot a bent twig or a blurry footprint would be applied to the bedroom. It meant that Daryl learned quick and noticed every single gasp and sigh of pleasure that fell out of Paul’s mouth.

Not that Daryl needed any special skill to observe that now, with Paul groaning loudly and thrusting up into his mouth. After a few blissful minutes of that Daryl pulled off his dick, the cool air hit skin wet with saliva and made Paul shudder. Daryl ran his tongue down over his balls, taking one than the other into his mouth and sucking gently. He took one of Paul’s legs and bent it toward his chest, wet mouth moving on from Paul’s balls, moving back—

“Whoah,” Paul said, body jerking and skin flushing.

“What?” Daryl asked, lifted his head.

“I just,” Paul said, flapping his hands vaguely in the air.

“Do you not like this? You said it feels good.”

“You don’t have to,” Paul stammered out, “I mean, I can take it or leave it…I didn’t…”

Daryl just glared at him challengingly, then lowered his mouth back down. His tongue was warm and wet, licking little circles over Paul’s balls, moving back.

“ _Fuck,”_ Paul groaned, arching his hips.

“You _like_ this,” Daryl said, in a tone of voice that made Paul want to laugh.

“Do you…I can turn over—“ Paul started to say, but before he could move Daryl grabbed him by the ankles and jerked him forward, knocking him off his elbows and flat on his back. Paul let out a surprised gasp, then Daryl was bending his legs towards his chest, lifting his hips off the bed until Paul was curled in on himself, feet above his head and ass in the air. He could just make out Daryl’s face between the V of his legs, his eyes were boring into Paul’s like lasers. Then the feel of Daryl’s warm and wet tongue sliding up _into_ him, making Paul fucking _yell._ He squirmed against the covers, when he looked up saw his toes were splayed wide and his feet were kicking helplessly against the air.

“You _do_ like this,” Daryl said again, sounding accusing.

Paul couldn’t deny it even if he wanted to, he was _shocked_ at how much he was liking this. It was hardly the first time a guy had done this, but it was…different. There was an intimacy to it that normally made him uncomfortable; you couldn’t get more intimate than having someone’s tongue in your asshole. But now with Daryl any uncomfortableness was fleeting, outweighed by complete trust. “Ok, I like it,” Paul panted, “Could you please…don’t stop…”

He didn’t have to say any more, as soon as “please” fell out of his mouth Daryl was diving back in.

Later they drowsed in bed, Paul practically purring with contentment. Before he fell asleep all the way he heard Daryl mutter, “Shoulda told me you liked doin’ that.”

Paul was too sleepy and blissed out for those words to sink in. He didn’t think of them at all until a few weeks later when Daryl tried bottoming for the first time. Ithad been a long time coming, not that Paul minded. During those first few months he was just so happy to be with Daryl at all. True as that was he couldn’t _deny_ he’d thought about it, thought about it a hell of a lot, actually. He got an electric charge out of the thought of fucking a guy like Daryl—big, broad-shouldered, and _masculine_ Daryl with his legs spread and taking whatever Paul felt like giving him. But even after they admitted their feelings and started sleeping with each other Paul was still afraid of scaring him off.

To his surprise it was Daryl who actually brought it up.

“Do you…do you not like it?” Daryl asked nervously after Paul didn’t respond.

“No,” Paul replied, voice strangled, “I like it a lot. It’s just, um, it’s advanced stuff, is all.”

“I ain’t a blushing virgin.”

“Now Daryl you and I know the first part of that statement is a lie. You’re turning red right now.”

“Fuck you,” Daryl said, “I ain’t delicate, is what I mean.”

Paul studied him, the stubborn set of his jaw and shoulders, the pink tips of his ears, and determined expression in his eyes.

“Ok,” Paul said, “If you want to try that I’d really like it.” Daryl didn’t say anything, just gave a quick, shy little nod.

It was a bit of a disaster.

At first it was fine; Paul got Daryl on his back and knelt between his thighs. He was as gentle and patient as he could be; spending ages just running his hands over Daryl’s body, feeling tense muscles gradually relax. When he thought Daryl was ready he went for the lube, coating his fingers with it while Daryl watched. Paul bent down and kissed his stomach, arching down lower to nuzzle at Daryl’s dick the same time he slid his slick fingers back behind. He took the other man’s dick in his mouth at the exact same time he slid a finger inside of him. Daryl was tense at first, then he started getting into it; first groaning when Paul bent his fingers _just that way,_ then lifting his hips and trying to work Paul’s fingers in deeper.

It was when Paul actually got on top and bent one of Daryl’s legs back that they ran into problems. Although just minutes before Daryl was relaxed and pliant he tensed up as soon as Paul started to push inside. Paul stopped to wait, smiled down at him, petted his stomach and chest before he bent down and kissed him. While they kissed he felt Daryl relax, and Paul rolled his hips slowly to slide the rest of his dick in. Daryl made a noise and jerked away from his mouth, tensing up up again. His jaw clenched and he wouldn’t meet Paul’s eyes.

“Hey,” Paul murmured, “You ok?”

“Fine,” Daryl snapped, “I told you I ain’t delicate. Get on with it.”

 _Get on with it._ Paul was sure there was something else that Daryl could say to him that would be just as big of a boner killer, but he honestly couldn’t think of one. He blew a breath out of his nostrils and said, “Yeah, I don’t think so.” He pulled out and rolled off his boyfriend.

“What the _hell,”_ Daryl spat out. He was trembling and looked pissed off and embarrassed.

“Look, you’re obviously not into this right now,” Paul answered, “It’s fine. We can do something else—“ he offered, although to perfectly honest he wasn’t in the mood anymore.

Daryl saw, and his fist clenched angrily, “I won’t fucking _break_!”

 _“_ Look, I can’t get off fucking someone who isn’t enjoying it,” Paul said evenly, “I told you, it’s f—“

“If you say it’s fucking ‘fine’ one more _fucking_ time,” Daryl couldn’t finish, he looked away and clenched his jaw.

Paul tried to think of what to say, being gentle and understanding was just pissing Daryl off, “Ok. I won’t say ‘fine’. I’ll say ‘good’, I’m happy to keep doing what we’re already doing. I don’t want you thinking you _have_ to do anything, it’s not a checklist you have to go through—“

“And I don’t want _you_ holdin’ back because you got some idiotic idea I’m terrified of your dick or, or whatever the fuck you think. You hold back enough.”

“I don’t _hold back—“_ Paul sputtered out.

“You do, you always have,” Daryl snapped, “Ever since the first time we…I had to find out from watching _porn_ that you like some things because you won’t _tell me—_ “

“That’s because there’s stuff I like doing with you I don’t like doing with anyone else! Fucking hell, you’re in my apartment and in my bed and I…” he looked away, fighting for words, “I don’t always know what the fuck I’m doing either. And I don’t want to hurt you, or worry about doing something you don’t like because you won’t tell _me._ ”

“I said what I wanted to do, I’m a grown ass man, I don’t need you deciding you know what’s best for me like I’m some stupid kid!”

“I don’t think you’re stupid or a kid, but you’re _new_ at this, it’s nothing to be ashamed of or you have to make up for—“

“So I’m just some delicate fucking flower or whatever. First time you did this, did the guy treat you like a damn baby—“

“No he fucking didn’t, he didn’t give a shit one way or another,” Paul snapped, then looked away. He realized he was shaking a little. Daryl was silent, and Paul felt tired and defeated suddenly. He chanced a look at his boyfriend, the other man was looking away, shoulders tense and jaw tight. He fidgeted a little, toying with the sheets. As if Daryl sensed Paul’s gaze he finally darted a quick glance at his face. Paul found himself wanting to talk about it more, “The first time I did this was with an older guy I barely knew. I’d done other stuff with other guys, but not…I hated every minute of it and just gritted my teeth until it was over.”

He saw Daryl’s fists clench against the sheets, and the rise and fall of his chest speed up. Finally he said, “Guy sounds like an asshole.”

“He was, yeah,” Paul answered, “I didn’t try getting fucked again for a long time after that. Lucky for me the next time was with a guy who wasn’t an asshole. So I’m just saying I don’t think you’re a kid or a baby, or whatever.”

“Ok,” Daryl said. As Paul watched Daryl’s fists slowly uncurled. After a few minutes he muttered, “I’m going to go get cleaned up.”

They spent the night at a careful distance away from each other, both of them awake and neither one talking. In the small hours of the morning Paul couldn’t take it any longer and shifted in bed until he was in his accustomed spot with his face pressed against Daryl’s chest. The other man was stiff at first before putting a tentative arm around Paul shoulders and they were both able to drift off.

******

When it finally happened it wasn’t exactly _spontaneous_ since they’d talked to each other about it. But the night it actually happened wasn’t planned. Sex hadn’t been planned at all, it was their second night in the new house and they’d spent all day moving. If the only thing moving involved was dealing with the shit they already had then it wouldn’t have been a big deal, but it didn’t take them long to realize they were missing a lot of _stuff._ No bed, no furniture for the living room, no washer or dryer, and nothing for the bathrooms. They spent most of the day at Target, picking out kitchenware, a new king-sized bed, lamps, and everything else. They moved the mattress into the master bedroom but were too tired to fuck with putting the frame together so just threw a sheet over it and left it on the floor.

They planned on taking a shower and going straight to bed, but it didn’t happen that way. What happened was that once they got in the shower after a few minutes under hot water Paul wrapped his arms around Daryl’s middle, chest pressed against the other man’s back. He wasn’t trying to start something, he just felt a sort of dreamy contentment and peace, the result of a hard day of physical labor. A hard day of physical labor because they’d gotten a _house_ together, Paul had a boyfriend he felt secure enough with to start thinking in terms of the rest of his life.

“You gonna need a piggy back ride to bed?” Daryl grumbled out.

“Nope,” Paul said, not moving, “Just want a cuddle.”

“Pussy,” Daryl deadpanned.

“You love it. I’m gonna cuddle the _shit_ out of you.”

“Mmmm,” Daryl said, “‘spose if you must.”

Paul pressed his face between Daryl’s shoulder blades and smiled. Despite those words Paul could feel the looseness of Daryl’s body in his arms, the other man was practically melting. He placed a kiss against Daryl’s tattoo, rubbing his face against it.“I still love this tattoo,” he murmured, “it’s sexy.” Daryl snorted, and Paul squeezed him tighter, “It _is,_ ” he protested, “the rest of you is too.”

“Even the beer gut?” Daryl said playfully, and Paul pinched his sides. Daryl had a little extra around the middle but he didn’t have a _gut._ Paul _liked_ it, Paul liked that Daryl wasn’t sculpted and perfect.

“Even your beer gut,” Paul said, running his palm down Daryl’s stomach. He might have a bit of padding there but the muscle beneath it was still hard and firm. Paul slid his hand lower and was unsurprised to find Daryl was starting to get hard. Paul gave him a squeeze and said, “Besides, your dick would make up for it anyway.”

The noise Daryl made was some strange hybrid of a laugh and a gasp. He thrust his dick into Paul’s hand, thighs and butt rubbing against Paul’s own dick and it was like a switch had been flipped. Where minutes before he was drowsy he was now alert, pulse racing and muscles tightening. He took in a deep breath, and another, he should let Daryl go or just jerk him off—

“Paul,” Daryl said in a choked voice, “Can we…I want…” he rubbed his butt back against him again, deliberately this time, and Paul found himself biting his shoulder reflexively.

“Yeah, yeah, we can do that,” Paul said quickly.

They didn’t even really dry off from the shower, just staggered to where the mattress was sitting in the middle of the floor, both men still dripping with water. Paul knew they’d regret it later, but he couldn’t bring himself to care at the moment, _nothing_ was as important as pushing Daryl down against the mattress on his stomach. Paul grabbed one of their new pillows and shoved it underneath Daryl’s hips, propping his ass up in the air. He ran his hands reverently from Daryl’s shoulders down to his thighs, enjoy the way the other man’s muscles rippled as he tensed then relaxed.

There was a comical moment when Paul realized he didn’t know exactly where their supplies were, he thought the rubbers and lube were in one of the boxes on the floor but wasn’t sure. He had to stumble to his feet with his dick thrusting out, so hard it was _painful._ Thankfully everything was in the first box Paul checked and he practically ran back to where Daryl was spread out waiting patiently for him.

Paul’s hands were shaking a little as he coated his fingers with lube and startedIt was fucking amazing. Unlike their first attempt Daryl was able to relax almost completely, and when he did tense up he was able to say, “Wait, stop for a second,” instead of enduring it in silence. By the time Paul was all the way in and started moving Daryl was totally open to him and moaning out a litany of curses punctuated with Paul’s name.

It was perfect, Daryl was just like how Paul had known he would be, eagerly taking it, rubbing himself against the pillow and letting out inarticulate cries. After a few minutes of steady thrusting Daryl groaned out and pushed himself up onto his knees, arching back into Paul’s thrusts and shoving his hand between his body and the mattress so he could grab his dick. Paul felt his heart stutter and he sped up his rhythm, watched Daryl pressed his face against his free hand arm and bite into his own bicep.

They kissed for a very long time after it was all finished, Paul too drowsy and content to move, eventually falling asleep without even bothering to clean either of them up. Another thing he knew he’d regret later but couldn’t be bothered to care about with Daryl’s warm skin against his own.

************

Years later Paul was lying in bed next to another man and didn’t feel _guilt_ so much as sadness for everything he’d lost. Nothing would ever be that good again, he’d never feel that close and uninhibited with anyone else.

Daniel murmured in his sleep, reaching out then settling down when his hands found Paul’s skin.

Paul studied him in the dim light from the moon. He was a nice guy, handsome, and pretty good in bed based on this one encounter. It wasn’t like it was with Daryl, but in this world _everything_ , or nearly everything, was just a pale shadow of what had come before.

******

Paul was sitting on the steps of his trailer idly tossing a tennis ball for Lou when he was joined by Harlan Carson.

“Jesus,” he said. When Lou noticed him she had a moment of indecision before bringing her slobbery ball over to the doctor. Harlan smiled a little before tossing the ball out her way.

“When are you going out again?” Harlan asked.

“Within a day or two,” Paul said, “I’m not planning to stop at the Kingdom so I’ll take Lou with me.”

“Because there won’t be a tiger,” Harlan said. The other man hadn’t believed Paul at first when he told him about Shiva months ago. Even when Paul rolled up his pants leg and showed him the still healing scars he was still a little skeptical.

Paul smiled, “Well, I can’t guarantee there won’t be a tiger. Just that I don’t expect one.”

“These days who knows,” Harlan said. Lou had returned with her tennis ball and tossed it into his lap again. “When do you think you’ll go to the Kingdom again?”

Paul squirmed a little. He’d gone to the Kingdom twice since he first hooked up with Daniel and had a repeat performance each time. Paul was starting to worry it would become a _habit_ so he decided he would scout out new areas the next time he went out.

He didn’t explain this to Harlan, Paul liked the Hilltop doctor and they were almost friends but they weren’t quite on that level yet. Instead he just said, “Not for awhile, there’s some places I want to check out farther south. Wolf Trap, Alexandria, some other suburbs.”

“Do you think they’ve started working on the new settlement?”

“Eager to get rid of your brother?” Paul said, only half joking. The brothers didn’t get along well, the elder Dr. Carson was cold and a bit of a know-it-all.

Lou returned with her tennis ball again, and the doctor threw it distractedly. “Yes,” Harlan said when he was finished, “God, that sounds so fucking…he’s my brother, I still have a brother and almost no one here can stay the same.”

“The end of the world doesn’t automatically mean you get along with everyone.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Harlan said, “I wonder what—“

He trailed off, and Paul could see why. Lou had snatched up her tennis ball, had started trotting back toward them when she froze, head cocking back and forth. The tennis ball fell from Lou’s mouth and her tail became a blur she was wagging it so fast. She raced over to Paul, jumped up, and licked his face  repeatedly before racing toward the gates.

“Lou!” Paul called out, clambering to his feet, “Fuck, hold that thought.”

“What’s gotten into her?”

Paul shook his head and chased after the dog. She was racing around in circles, when she saw Paul she galloped over, jumped up and licked his face again before racing around in more circles.

“What the hell—“ Paul started to say when he heard it and his throat froze up. It was a familiar sound, one he used to hear on the afternoons he beat Daryl home from work. The distant rumble of a motorcycle’s engine, growing louder.

Lou was beside herself in excitement, jumping and wiggling. It took Paul a second to pull himself together and start to think. The sound of the motorcycle grew louder, and Paul realized he was hearing more than one.

“Kal?” Paul called out, looking up to the Hilltop guard stationed at the top of the gate, “Can you see anything?”

“Motorcycles,” Kal said after a few minutes, gripping his spear.

“How many?” Paul asked, voice shaking.

Kal didn’t answer at first, then, “Ten, I think.”

There was a small crowd gathering, drawn in by the sound of the motorcycle engines. “Someone get Gregory,” Paul said.

A few minutes later the motorcycle engines were loud enough to fill the world, they were right outside the gate. The sound died, and Paul heard a voice call out.

“Well, hello there! Why don’t you open that gate?”

Paul pressed forward, looking out through a gap in the gate. He could see the group fanned out on the path leading to Hilltop. Eight of them, mean-looking guys in leather and all heavily armed. Machine guns, pistols, the kind of thing Paul hadn’t seen in a long time.

“Why should I?” Kal called out in answer, “Who are you?”

Their leader, a middle-aged guy with greasy dark hair that contrasted with his grey beard, sighed and look down at his feet in regret, then looked up. His eyes met Paul’s, they were pale blue and even from several yards away Paul could tell they were cruel.

He knew what was going to happen a second before it did, shouting out for Kal to get down while he dropped to the ground himself. 

The sound of machine gun fire filled the air, Paul could hear the dull thunk as bullets hit the wood of the gates, heard Kal cry out. He was aware of Lou beside him, barking in a panic. He flung an arm out wildly and grabbed her collar, tugging her down next to him. She was whimpering and shivering.

After what felt like an hour of that but was probably less than thirty seconds the guns went silent. Paul’s ears were ringing as he raised his head. He could see Kal cowering flat on his belly on the guard platform, he appeared unhurt. Paul looked behind him, Gregory had arrived. The leader of Hilltop was crouched down, eyes wide and terrified.

“Hey friend!” the voice of the gang’s leader, “Those were warning shots. Now, I’m guessing y’all don’t have any ammo of your own, so I recommend opening that gate.”

“Jesus? Gregory?” Kal called out.

Gregory gaped, dumbfounded. His eyes sought out Paul’s, begging for assistance.

Paul felt frozen; they outnumbered the gang but the leader was right, they _were_ out of ammo. They had spears and arrows, useful against the dead but worthless next to living opponents with guns. They could force their way in eventually, they could—

 _Do_ not _let them assholes in, you know they ain’t up to anything good. Make ‘em fight for it, at least._

Daryl’s voice, and Paul knew he was right. Meeting Gregory’s eyes he shook his head and mouthed, “ _D_ _on’t_.”

“Friend?” the gang leader called out, “I’m not sure you understand the situation. Now, I’m going to count to ten, and if that gate isn’t open, well. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“Open the gates, Kal!” Gregory blurted out.

Paul stared at him, and heard the grinding noise of the gates being opened. He snatched Lou by the collar and stumbled back to the gathering crowd.

They rolled into Hilltop, the entire gang of them. Dust clouds were kicked up by the wheels of their bikes as the rode over the grounds, circling around the scattered crowd of people and herding them all into a little knot. Finally they pulled to a stop, and the leader dismounted his bike. He was short, Paul realized, maybe an inch or two less than Paul’s own height. “Ok, who’s in charge around here?” he said in a pleasant voice.

Gregory gaped at him for a minute before he cleared his throat and said, “That would be me. I’m Gregory, can I help you gentlemen?”

The leader of the bikers gave a cheerful smile and sauntered over to Gregory. “Hi,” he said, still in that pleasant voice, “I’m Bud, and I’m here to tell you that all your property now belongs to Negan.”

Gregory sputtered, looking around at the heavily armed gang, “Um. I’m afraid I don’t understand,” he said. Paul could see beads of sweat trickling down his face.

“I can clarify, using small words,” Bud said, “All your stuff—by which I mean that house there, those cows there, these people standing around us, even the shirt on your back— are you following me, Greg? Understand what I mean by that?”

Gregory nodded, and Bud continued, “Great! Well, it’s not yours anymore. It belongs to Negan.”

“Who’s Negan?” Gregory asked.

“We’re the ones who will be asking questions. Is this everyone?” Bud asked Gregory. Hilltop’s leader looked around wide-eyed and confused, and Paul knew damn well he had no idea how many people lived in settlement. Bud sighed theatrically and made a twirly motion at one of his followers, a big guy with long, raggedly black hair. He dismounted his bike and started toward Barrington.

“Now,” Bud said, any of you have any weapons? If you behave we’ll give ‘em back.”

Another of the bikers got up, gun raised, and went through the crowd. Paul was the only person who was armed; he had a knife strapped to his thigh, another tucked into his boot, one slung in a sheath that hung around his shoulder.

“Well now,” Bud said, eying Paul with interest, “You got any more of these pig stickers hiding on your person?”

Paul shook his head. Lou was pressed against his legs, and Paul leaned down to grab a hold of her collar.

“Hey there good boy,” Bud said, offering a hand for Lou to sniff. She just whined in confusion and leaned closer to Paul.

“Bud,” a voice called out, “There was more of them back in those trailers.”

Paul’s heart sank when he saw that the guy with raggedy black hair had returned. He had both Dr. Carsons marching ahead of him at gunpoint as well as Miss K, Rory, and the rest of the Hilltop orphans. The twins were holding each other’s hands and Maisie was clinging to Rory with one hand and Miss K with the other.

“Anyone else back there? No? Well, good deal. Here’s how it’s going to be: your property now belongs to Negan. Now, now,” Bud said at the confused rumbling of the crowd, “We are the Saviors,” he said, “And that’s not just us blowing smoke up your asses, no. Negan is here to _save_ you, all of you. You work for him now, and he will work for you. Even though all of your shit is his, he’s generous enough to let you keep half. How does that sound, Greg?”

Gregory was gaping in astonishment, “Listen, you can’t just show up and make demands. Who is this Negan, why can’t he show his face here if he wants our help?”

“Listen,” Bud said, sighing with regret, “I’m sorry it’s got to be this way, now I truly am. But there’s some things you people need to understand right off the bat. So we’re going to kill just one of you, to let you know that we’re serious. So. Who’s it going to be?”

“What?” Gregory blurted out, eyes wide and darting in every direction at once.

Paul felt himself grow cold with terror. Bud had said it so casually, like he was discussing the weather, but Paul knew he meant it. Someone was about to die, he didn’t know if he could stop it.

“Let me repeat,” Bud said, “We’re going to kill someone. Now you’re their leader, so who is it going to be?”

Gregory still looked like he didn’t believe what he was hearing. He looked around at the wide eyes surrounding him. When his eyes fell on where the Carsons were standing with the Hilltop Orphans Emmett quickly blurted out, “I’m a doctor, and so is my brother. We’re more useful to you alive than dead, not us.”

Harlan Carson stared at his brother, astounded.

“A _doctor?_ How about that! We’re short a doctor, as it happens. Thanks for letting usknow, friend. Gregory? Which of the non doctors here could you stand to lose? What about that fat bitch over there?” he gestured his gun at Miss K. The woman went pale but she stood up straight, pushing the smaller kids behind her. One of the twins started crying.

“Aw, sorry there son. I guess we won’t kill your granny or what the fuck ever she is,” Bud looked around, lighting on Paul, “Now, what about you, pretty boy?” Bud asked, stepping forward “You a doctor?”

Paul felt himself go numb. He felt distant, outside of himself. He knew he was going to die, that this was it. He wondered if there was anything on the other side, if Daryl would be waiting for him. Bud raised the gun at Paul’s face, pale eyes dancing with glee.

That’s when Lou sprang forward, barking. He tried to close his hand on her collar but his grip was weak due to shock. She lunged for Bud, Paul heard himself shout out “ _No!”_ then the _bang, bang,_ of the gun going off. People screamed, Paul recognized one of the cries was from Maisie. There was a spray of blood and Lou’s high-pitched yelp. She did a somersault and lay on the ground twitching.

“Aw, that is a _damn_ shame,” Bud said, “Haven’t seen a dog in ages. Now, Pretty Boy, as I was asking—“

“You, you, you complete _shit!”_ a voice that was high pitched and trembling with fear cried out. Paul jerked his eyes away from Lou’s bloody body and saw that Rory had stepped forward a few paces, hands clenched into fists. His knees were visibly shaking and he wasn’t looking Bud in the eye but he didn’t back down.

“You’re brave, son,” Bud said, “You look too young to be a doctor.”

“Rory,” Miss K said, “Be quiet, get back here!”

The boy didn’t listen, just stood there trembling in a rage.

Bud sighed again, “T?” he said, gestured to one of the gang behind him. The guy was beefy, with a short beard and a baseball cap, he looked like someone’s dad. He had a tire iron in one hand, and when he reached Rory he stood in front of him for a few minutes, silent.

“Wait—“ Paul started to say, when without warning he struck the tire iron against Rory’s face. People screamed, Rory let out a mushy sounding cry, stumbling backward with blood spraying from his ruined nose. T walked away, and a second biker, the one with ragged black hair, strolled up. He had a length of pipe in one hand, and he took a long look at the assembled crowd before he raised the pipe over his head. Rory was staggering, still on his feet but weaving drunkenly. The biker brought the pipe down, there was a _crack_ as it made contact with Rory’s upturned face.

“Stop it!” Harlan yelled, lunging toward the injured teen. The biker lowered his pipe and raised his gun, making the doctor slam to a halt even as his brother reached out to grab him.

“Be careful with that man, he’s a doctor,” Bud said, walking over to the biker with ragged hair and gently pushing the gun aside. “This is hella awkward,” this was aimed at Harlan. He gestured to where Rory was slumped down on his knees. His face a ruined and bloody maw. Paul saw that the left half of his face was crooked, the cheekbone and jaw several inches lower. One of the blows had broken Rory’s glasses, the shards had pierced one eyeball and it was laying out on the boy’s cheek like a crushed grape. Bud deftly took the length of pipe from the other biker’s hand.

People screamed and looked away. Gregory was green and looked like he was going to throw up. Bud raised the pipe. Rory drunkenly raised a bloody hand. The pipe was a shiny silver arc as it crashed down against Rory’s face. Bud raised the pipe again and again, each time it hit there was a wet crunch. It seemed to go on forever, until there was nothing left of the kid’s face and his skull had a weird, deflated look.

When it was over it was silent but for the sound of muffled weeping. Miss K looked like she was on the verge of fainting, clutching the twins’ faces against her sides so they couldn’t look.

The guy that Bud had referred to as “T” stepped forward. He had a polaroid camera that he pointed at Rory’s shattered corpse. There was a flash of light and a whirring noise as the photo processed. The white square photo slid out, T glanced down at it and shook it absently.

“Now that everyone understands,” Bud said, sounding winded, “we’re going to give y’all a few days to get ready. Is that acceptable to you, Gregory?”

Gregory stared at Bud with open mouthed horror before he began to frantically nod, “Yes, yes. That sounds…we can do business with you gentlemen. We’re reasonable people.”

“Remember what I said about everything belonging to Negan. You’re lucky we’re letting you keep half. Don’t try and short us,” Bud said. He turned to the Carsons and said, “We’ll take half your doctors, too. No need to pack your bags, where we’re going…” he chuckled, “Which one of you—“

“Burn in hell,” Harlan spat.

Bud laughed, then gestured to Emmett. The doctor was marched forward, was forced to climb behind on the back of one of the motorcycles.

“Ta for now,” Bud said, mounting his own bike. He gave the crowd a little wave before he revved his engine and peeled out, the rest of the gang falling behind him.

The sound of the motorcycles faded. Paul stared around him at the shattered faces of the people of Hilltop. Miss K was crouched by Rory’s body and sobbing into her hands. The rest of the children were in hysterics, he saw that one of the twins had wet himself.

Paul slowly turned his head to where Lou was lying on her side, her blood soaking into the grass. He sank to his knees beside her. Horribly, she was still alive. One bullet had gone through her chest, blood was bubbling out. The other had hit her in the leg, smashing through bone and ripping it nearly all the way off. She saw him and her tale wagged a little.

Paul felt blood pounding in his temples. Dozens of memories flashed through his mind: The first night Daryl brought her home, Paul half delirious from fever and not sure whether or not the wiggling puppy emerging from his boyfriend’s coat was real. A few weeks later during their first Christmas, playing in the too-rare snow. Daryl scooped her up and zipped her in his coat when she got cold, Paul took a picture with her head hanging out and for once Daryl didn’t yell at him for it. Walking her through the neighborhood and her fan club coming by to chat, Paul did most of the talking while Daryl stood off to the side watching. Halloween one year on a work night so they stayed in watching horror flicks, drinking, and handing out candy for trick-or-treaters. Paul wore the same skeleton costume he’d worn into work then raided their first aid kit for ace bandages and wound it around Lou for a a makeshift mummy costume. Daryl wasn’t one for dressing up or trick-or-treaters, just rolled his eyes at the two of them when they’d answer the door. Toward the end of the evening Paul was laying with his head in Daryl’s lap while the other man rubbed his scalp, watching a blonde woman run screaming from whatever monster was currently menacing the screen. On the floor Lou had started rolling around, finally getting sick of the bandages and trying to peel them off only succeeding in tangling herself up even worse. Paul remembered the fond chuckle Daryl gave before he careful moved Paul to the side and got up to get a pair of scissors to cut her free. Paul could see it in every detail, the strands of hair in Daryl’s face, the way his eyes crinkled into an unwilling smile when Lou was free and wiggling around on the floor in front of him. Paul remembered going for rides with her in his sidecar, motorists slowing down and pointing as they passed. Camping trips with her curled up at their feet while Paul rested his head against Daryl’s chest. How she’d pace nervously during one of their rare arguments. Forgetting to lock her out of the bedroom when they had sex, she thought it was a fun game, one she was welcome to join in, jumping on top of them and rolling around on the bed. Daryl’s teary voice over the phone when she was still a puppy and pulled her stitches after the spaying surgery, how in the following days Daryl hovered nervously over her and didn’t complain about her sleeping in the bed for weeks afterward.

Paul stared at Lou’s bleeding and shattered little body and wanted to scream, he wanted to tear at his hair. He wanted Daryl there, to put his arms around him and grumble soothing nonsense. He wanted to go somewhere and just cry his eyes out, but all the tears seemed frozen up inside him.

Lou tried to get up and whined when she moved to much. He patted her with shaking hands and choked out a barely audible, “Knife.” No one seemed to realize he was speaking, people were huddled together on the verge of panic. “ _Knife,”_ he said a little louder, then, nearly shouting, “Can someone get me a fucking knife?”

His shout caused silence to descend, all of Hilltop was looking at him kneeling by Lou’s bloody head. No one moved, and the only sounds were the choked sobs of Miss K and the children.

“ _She’s suffering, someone get me a fucking knife!”_ he shouted, voice cracking. Lou whined and licked his hands, leaving streaks of blood.

Harlan was kneeling beside him then, face white, and Paul sputtered, “I need to put her down, _please_ get me-“

“Fuck. That,” Harlan said, stripping out of his flannel shirt and using it to bind the wound in Lou’s chest with shaking hands, “Give me your belt, need to tie off her leg.” He spoke with brusque authority that Paul found himself obeying without conscious thought. After he’d fashioned a tourniquet around Lou’s leg he held it tight and said, “Help me carry her.”

“Doctor Carson don’t let the doggie die,” one of the kids, Maisie, sobbed out.

“I’ll do my best, Paul, _hurry—“_

Paul did as Carson asked, helping the doctor carefully lift the dog up off the ground and heading toward the medical trailer. 

They were halfway to the medical trailer when Paul realized Gregory was following them, he jumped in front of Dr. Carson and stammered out, “Carson, she’s a dog, we can’t waste—“

“It’s not a waste, and I don’t recall asking you.” Harlan snapped, “Medical equipment is _my_ purview, get the fuck out of my way.”

Paul thought Gregory would still have tried to protest if he hadn’t seen the looks on the faces of the rest of the Hilltop. They were all staring at their leader in mute horror, and realization pierced through Paul’s own grief. Lou had become the Hilltop’s fucking _mascot,_ if she died now after they had been forced to stand helplessly as Rory was beaten to death then who knew if any of them could carry on. So it wasn’t just selfishness that caused him to shoot off a quick mental prayer to whoever might be listening as he helped Harlan gently lower Lou onto one of the exam tables.


	21. Daryl: Part XI

Daryl was at the Alexandria Safe Zone for four days before he took his first shower. Everyone else in the group made use of showers their first night while Daryl just wiped down the essentials with cold water. Truth was he was afraid to use the showers, felt as though if he washed off the layer of grime settled over his skin something else might be washed away. Some outer coating that kept him protected and kept the people of Alexandria away from him. Carol got on his dick about it, told him that they needed to keep up appearances and threatened to hose him down in his sleep. A threat he ignored. Carol herself had gone full Stepford Wife, wearing flowery cardigans and feigning helplessness. Smiling sweetly at the Alexandrians who were so soft and poorly equipped for survival they missed the hard glint in her blue eyes.

Even Rick pointing out that everyone in the community was watching Daryl like a hawk wasn’t enough to get him in the shower or to act sociable. Everyone had already made their minds up about him, even before he nearly killed the guy who’d gone after Glenn. It wasn’t like Daryl hadn’t been provoked. Deanna Monroe’s asshole son had tried to punch Glenn, the kid ducked under the blow with ease before snapping back up and laying Asshole Jr out flat with just one hit. Asshole Jr’s asshole buddy charged Glenn while his back was turned and Daryl saw red. What happened next was all a blur. Asshole Jr’s buddy was on the ground and Daryl’s hands were around his throat, squeezing. Rick was yelling at him to ease up, to not do this now and Daryl didn’t care. If he had been able to string together words or coherent thoughts he would have said that the little fuck had _tried to attack Glenn,_ had tried while the kid’s back was turned, and that the weaselly little fuck did not get to do that in front of Daryl and live. Everything calmed down and Deanna fucking Monroe, mother of assholes, asked Rick and Michonne to be constables. It was all too absurd for Daryl to handle. He stormed back to the house, where he spent most of the day curled up on the porch, watching people move through the town suspiciously. Fucking _constable._ He felt like he was losing his mind.

“Constable” wasn’t the only stupid job handed out by Deanna Monroe, mother of assholes and leader of Alexandria. She gave them all jobs—Glenn as a supply runner slash babysitter of her asshole son. Abraham was put on the construction crew, tending to the walls. Carol was a fucking cook. Rick and Michonne were the last, now Everyone but Daryl had a job. It suited him just fine. She’d interviewed them all when the first arrived, questioning them about their skills and past lives. He didn’t volunteer much about himself, didn’t want to argue that he was a skilled mechanic or excellent hunter or that he’d done the same shit she was doing himself—interviewing people, deciding if they were a good fit, and he hadn’t needed some fancy camera.

The night before Daryl’s first shower Rick said to Daryl and Carol that they were going to stay. That the whole group was going to try and make it work without getting weak. The last thing he said was if it didn’t work they could just take over.

What finally got Daryl in the shower was Aaron. He asked Daryl to _try_ to come to the welcome party being thrown at Deanna Monroe’s house that night. Everyone had been invited including himself but Daryl had no intention of going. No one bothered to try and talk him into it, Rick and Carol seemed to know better and Daryl would have ignored anyone else’s request. But much to his dismay he had trouble ignoring Aaron, and the other man seemed to fucking _sense_ that. He followed Daryl outside the walls and talked to him without expecting answers. Daryl didn’t say one way or another what he would do about the party, but the request weighed on him. Every word out of Aaron’s mouth weighed on him, the other man made Daryl feel skittish and antsy. Had ever since the first day he found the group and told them about Alexandria. Since he calmly told Rick that the only way to keep him from Eric’s side would be to shoot him.

Daryl spent the hours before the party dithering in the attic bedroom he’d claimed for himself a few nights prior. He finally forced himself to grab some of the clean clothes he’d found in his room—left on the bed earlier by who he assumed was Carol—and headed for the bathroom. The clothes consisted of a simple black button up, loose fitting dark pants, clean socks and skivvies. Enough to meet the bare minimum of “presentable” for a social gathering. Once inside the bathroom he slowly stripped out of his dirty clothes while avoiding his own eyes in the mirror.

The entire group said that the hot showers worked but he still didn’t believe it until he twisted the knob of the shower in the direction of the little embossed “H” on the side of the faucet. Stepping under the hot water made him _moan_ in a way he hadn’t in a year and a half. He leaned against the tiles of the shower and just let the hot water beat against his shoulders for an unknown amount of time before he grabbed a washcloth and the bar of soap. The cloth he used was a soft shade of pink that was black by the time he was done cleaning himself off.

When he was finished the bathroom was full of clouds of steam, the mirror misted over and thankfully blocking his face from view. He toweled himself off and changed into the clean clothes. In the medicine cabinet there was also shit like deodorant and mouthwash, stuff he stared at but didn’t end up using.

When he was as presentable as he could managed Daryl steeled himself and headed for the Monroe house. The other had already gone ahead, Daryl walked down the street by himself. As the sun set he watched lights in the neighboring houses flicker on, feeling unreality wash over him. This place felt more and more like a mirage with every passing second and every step he took down the street. When he reached the Monroe house he stood outside, watching the silhouettes of people moving through the brightly lit windows.

After a few minutes watching he turned back to the the group’s house. He remembered what Aaron had said to him, that the way to make the Alexandrians less afraid of him was to let them know him. Daryl supposed he had a point, but it was beyond him at the moment. He didn’t honestly give a shit. Let them think he was some feral freak of nature, some ignorant and dirty redneck dragged in from the wild.

There was also the fact that the thought of going inside made him feel sweaty, like he’d puke, made him remember going to the holiday parties thrown by Paul’s coworkers. Parties where Daryl lurked on the edges watching his boyfriend mingle, a skill that he himself never mastered and never would. Despite the awkwardness these were warm memories. Some of Paul’s coworkers were alright, some of them had spouse or significant others who were just as out of place as Daryl, there was usually good beer and food, and it made Paul happy to have his boyfriend there.

As Daryl walked down the street the porch light of one of the houses lit up, and he saw it was Aaron and Eric’s house. The former was on the porch and he called out to Daryl.

“Thought you were going to that party over there,” Daryl replied, pointing down the street to the Monroe house.

Aaron glanced in the direction of Daryl’s raised arm, “Oh, I was never going to go. ‘Cause of Eric’s ankle, thank god.” He smiled and gave a theatrical shudder.

“Why the hell you’d tell me to go, then?” Daryl demanded.

“I said ‘try’. You did. It’s a thought that counts thing,” Aaron replied. He was fucking beaming at Daryl, and Daryl wasn’t sure if he wanted to punch him or not. He was still unsure when Aaron asked Daryl to join him and Eric for dinner, “C’mon man, it’s some pretty serious spaghetti,” Aaron said the last with a smile, then turned around and walked inside without waiting to see if Daryl would follow him or not.

Daryl looked into the open door of the house, feeling uncertain and off balance. He fidgeted his fingers against his thigh briefly before mounting the porch steps and entering the house. He regretted it almost immediately when he saw Aaron go to the dining room table and gently touch the back of Eric’s neck then lean down and whisper into the other man’s ear. Eric turned, and when he saw Daryl he smiled so big it looked like his face would split in two.

“Daryl! I’m so glad to see you, I’d get up, but…” he gestured down to his leg.

Daryl mumbled that it was fine, then stood awkwardly by the dining room table. Eric gestured at the seat next to him and gave him another smile. The seat across from him already had a plate and a half empty wine glass.

Daryl found his chest tightening. It was the littlest fucking thing, but it was always the littlest fucking things. The fact that Eric had _his_ spot at the table and Aaron had _his_ own spot, didn’t matter if guests were over or what. Always the same chair. In their house at Athens he and Paul usually ate their meals at the kitchen table that had once belonged to Daryl’s mama. Breakfasts on Sunday mornings were Daryl’s favorite, the newspaper spread out all over the table, the two men taking turns with the sports section, Paul chewing on the pencil he used to do the crossword puzzle. Daryl had a chair that was his, and so did Paul.

Daryl pushed his memories away and sat down in the offered space next to Eric. Aaron returned from the kitchen with a plate and silverware in one hand and an empty wine glass in the other. He placed everything down in front of Daryl then grabbed the wine bottle from the center of the table and poured him a glass. Daryl toyed with it without drinking any, hyperaware of Eric watching him.

“Do you like Alexandria so far?” he asked.

Daryl shrugged, starting to sweat a little, “S’fine.”

“Not what you’re used to though, I imagine.”

Daryl shook his head. He was starting to really notice things he’d only glanced at before. The license plates on the walls, Aaron had mentioned to the group that he and Eric were collecting them. Hoping to get all fifty states. There was also a black and white photo of Aaron with Eric on an end table. Sweat trickled down his shoulder blades as he studied it.

He was saved from further attempts at conversation by Aaron emerging again from the kitchen wearing oven mitts and carrying a large pot of spaghetti. He set it down in the middle of the table, removed the oven mitts, and handed Daryl a set of tongs, “Guests first.”

Before Daryl could serve himself he heard Eric make an exasperated sigh, “Babe, you put the sauce in already.”

“Oh come on,” Aaron said, “Daryl doesn’t mind, does he?”

Daryl shook his head, but Eric wasn’t finished, “How many times have I told you not _everyone_ likes their noodles to be swimming in the sauce—“

“About once a week since we got together, so do the math—“ Aaron said. He was smiling as he said it, neither man was angry, it was a playful argument.

“Your math or my math? Because technically we knew each other _before_ we got together _—_

Aaron laughed, “Oh here we go, with the _technically—“_

Daryl dropped the tongs into the pot and said, “I gotta go,” interrupting Aaron mid sentence. He didn’t know if he could listen to another minute of this. He didn’t know why watching the two of them together was different than watching Glenn with Maggie or Rick with Michonne but it was.

The other two men went completely silent, and Daryl couldn’t look at either one of them. He needed to get up and leave but his legs were frozen. He had a lump in his throat and hot tears were prickling at his eyes. His hands curled into fists on the table cloth, and the tattoo on his finger seemed to burn like a fresh brand. _I gotta go, I gotta get out of here,_ he thought. Run away, maybe even as far away as outside the walls. Anywhere but here at this table in this warm, happy house.

Eric cleared his throat, “Oh, come on,” he said in a deliberately light voice, “Food’s right here. At least have a bite before you go. I’d really like it if you stayed, I owe you. Ease my pain?”

Daryl took in a deep breath and closed his eyes. He planned on saying no, it was fine, no thanks or spaghetti needed. He remembered what Aaron had said to him on the porch a few minutes ago, about it being a “thought that counts” thing. Instead he gave a jerky nod and filled his plate with spaghetti. Aaron and Eric watched him for a second before serving themselves.

Daryl ate rapidly, concentrating on his food to avoid conversation. Slurped the noodles down in a deliberately obnoxious way, pretending he didn’t notice Aaron and Eric’s exchanged looks. When he was finished he grunted out, “Thanks,” and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

Conversation turned to lighter subjects, Eric telling the story of one of the Alexandrians who kept going on and on about having a pasta maker, if Daryl found one on his travels to bring it back. Eric trailed off, and Daryl noticed that Aaron was giving him a Look, a Look between two people who had known each other a long time and didn’t need words anymore for some things.

Eric sighed, “I thought it was done. You didn’t ask him already?”

“Ask me what?”

“Nothing,” Aaron said quickly, “Well, something. I’ll talk to you about it later, it’s not really dinner conversation.”

“Later” turned out to be after dinner was eaten as well as dessert (fresh strawberries, Aaron said they grew wild a few miles south of Alexandria) and Aaron briefly excused himself to help Eric get to bed.

“Thanks for joining us, Daryl,” Eric said, leaning against his boyfriend, “It was nice having you, we’ll have to do it again.” Daryl let out a noncommittal grumble.

When Aaron returned he asked Daryl to come to the garage with him, he wanted to talk about something.

Whatever Daryl had been expecting to see in Aaron and Eric’s garage it was not what he did see, which was the scattered parts for a motorcycle. Almost every surface of the garage was covered in them, and his trained eye spotted the essentials—frame, fenders and tires, parts for the engine including the carburetor and pistons, a pipe for exhaust.

“When we got the place there was that frame,” Aaron explained, “And some parts and equipment. Whoever lived here built them.”

“Lotta parts for one bike,” Daryl muttered, inspecting them, mentally categorizing them as useful or a piece of shit. There were more of the former than the latter. He looked around at the rest of the garage—there were tools, _nice_ fucking tools, looked like everything he’d need to put these parts together into something rideable.

“Whenever I came across parts out there I brought them back,” Aaron said, “I didn’t know what I’d need.”

 _He’s got a good eye,_ Daryl thought, listening as Aaron continued to explain that he always thought he’d learn what to do with it, but he had a feeling that Daryl already knew. Which was true, he’d never put a bike together from scratch but he knew that he _could_ do it.

“And the thing is, you’re going to need a bike,” Aaron finished. When Daryl asked why Aaron said, “I told Deanna not to give you a job, because I think I have one for you. I’d like you to be Alexandria’s other recruiter. I don’t want Eric risking his life anymore.”

“But you want me risking mine, right?” Daryl said, not looking at Aaron and instead inspecting the tools. A lot of this shit was stuff he’d never been able to afford _before_ , high quality shit. He wasn’t angry or offended that Aaron would rather Daryl die than Eric, he would have felt the same way.

“Yeah,” Aaron said without hesitation, “Because you know what you’re doing. You’re good out there. I know it’s hard, getting used to people getting used to you. And I understand why you need to be out there sometimes. So do I. But the main reason I want you to help me recruit is because you know the difference between a good person and a bad person.”

Daryl hadn’t looked at Aaron once during this speech, he was lifting the tarp that covered the bike frame so he could examine it. He shot the other man’s face a quick glance, Aaron was staring at him with wide and pleading eyes.

_You know the difference between a good person and a bad person._

Daryl couldn’t speak at first, remembering months ago Rick asking him to be on the prison council. That he couldn’t think of anyone better. Finally he gave Aaron a little nod, “I got nothing else to do. Thanks.”

Aaron looked pleased, “No, thank you.”

“I gotta get back home,” Daryl said.

“I can walk you out,” Aaron said.

Daryl nodded. The two men left the garage, and Daryl turned his head over his shoulder to get a last look at the scattered parts, mentally planning how he wanted the finishedbike to look before Aaron clicked off the light. Aaron walked him out and stood in the open doorway as Daryl made his way down the porch steps.

Daryl stopped when he reached the bottom then turned around, “And you talked all this out with Eric? He don’t mind? You leavin’ him behind?”

Aaron looked surprised at the question, “Um.Yeah, we talked, and it was my idea, but he understands."

“That’s good,” Daryl replied, and wasn’t quite sure why he said the next bit, “My boyfriend woulda skinned me alive if tried makin’ a call like that for him. Then he’d’ve done whatever the hell he wanted anyway.”

Daryl didn’t wait for Aaron to respond before he started walking back toward the house.

The next morning when Carol proudly showed Daryl and Rick the guns she’d swiped from the armory while everyone was distracted by the party he refused to take one.

“You wanted me to try, right?” Daryl said, “I’m gonna try. I’m good.”

******

For a week Daryl did almost nothing but work on the bike in Aaron and Eric’s garage. He showed up in the morning when the sun was just coming up and worked well into the evening with only a few breaks for meals.

It was therapeutic, Daryl was more at peace than he’d been since before Beth had died. His mind was completely blank for most of the day, almost in a trance as he focused on what he was doing with his hands. At night he fell into an exhausted sleep in his attic bedroom and was completely dead to the entire world for about five straight hours.

It distracted him from what was going on. Rick and Carol were still doing their own thing, still _conspiring._ It was the only thing that could occasionally penetrate his pleasant haze that was a result of creating something. He tried not to think about it, it reminded him uncomfortably of back at the Atlanta camp, Merle saying they should rob the place, Daryl trying to talk him out of it before agreeing to go along.

One morning he almost told Michonne. He was working on the bike, Aaron and Eric’s garage door open, and she stopped in to chat with him. It was a thing that hadn’t happened in far too long, he felt like he barely saw her even though they were living in the same house.

“Wow,” she said quietly, “That’s really coming along.”

“Mmm-hmmm,” Daryl said. He glanced at her, she was still in that stupid constable uniform, the twin of the one Rick wore. He knew he should stop what he was doing, wipe his hands clean, and take a moment to really _talk_ to her. Come clean about everything—Rick saying if they couldn’t make it work they could just take this place, the stolen guns from the armory, everything. He couldn’t make himself do it, however. Couldn’t make himself betray Rick that way, even to Michonne, and it made him feel all kinds of low. She was Daryl’s friend too, but Rick was his _brother,_ and he was in charge.

She wouldn’t be happy if and when she found out, Daryl knew that much. Maybe be mad enough that she drew out this weird thing with Rick even longer. Daryl supposed he didn’t have much room to talk on that score, it had taken him an entire goddamn year to admit what his feelings for Paul actually were. Michonne still had a few months to go before she reached that point. Maybe Rick’s crazy talk about taking over would fizzle out before then. No sense stirring the pot, so he just talked about bullshit until Michonne went on her way.

******

Aaron joined him often, watching him work, asking questions. Sometimes Eric would come in and watch as well, but it was mostly Aaron. The other man waited two whole days before cautiously saying, “Did you mean what you said? About having a boyfriend?” Daryl gave a tight little nod, which made Aaron snort out a laugh, then in turn made him rapidly apologize, “I’m sorry, I just…I owe Eric, is all. After that first night when we brought you here he said you were gay, I didn’t believe him. He said I had to go get him another basket of strawberries if I was wrong…”

Daryl just shrugged and continued working on the bike.

Aaron didn’t seem put off by his silence, “Does the rest of your group know?”

Daryl shook his head, chest growing tight, “Only one of ‘em I ever told, she died. Right ‘fore we came here.”

“Why haven’t you told anyone else?”

Daryl didn’t answer at first, just kept working on the bike. Without looking at Aaron he said, “Hasn’t come up. Besides, I didn’t want any of them asking me about…” the words died in his throat. He’d been able to talk to Beth about Paul that night at the whiskey still but fuck, he couldn’t make himself do it again. He rubbed the tattoo on his ring finger absently and noticed Aaron was watching him with quiet sympathy. Daryl realized he didn’t need to say anything more.

“I’m sorry,” Aaron whispered, “I can’t…if anything happened to Eric, then…” he swallowed and looked away, “That first night, with your people, that’s probably the most scared I’ve been since this whole thing started. Just the idea that something had happened to him and I couldn’t do anything about it.”

Daryl nodded at him. He understood. Aaron went quiet, watching him work on the bike. He occasionally asked what Daryl was doing or handed over a tool that Daryl requested but other than that didn’t talk. It was a surprisingly comfortable silence, and Daryl marveled that this was so. He’d never had any other gay men as a friends before. Paul still had a few, but he’d slept with too many so Daryl wanted nothing to do with them. Even the ones he _hadn’t_ made still made Daryl feel jealous and insecure. Besides, aside from where he liked putting his dick he never saw what he had in common with most of gay guys Paul was friendly with. Years later Daryl sat in comfortable silence with Aaron and realized for the first time that he did have something in common. A kinship born of shared experience, an understanding that the others just didn’t have no matter how much they loved him. It was a nice feeling.

*****

Aaron and Daryl went on their first recruiting mission just as soon as the bike was finished. It was ugly as sin, that bike— a Franken-bike stitched together from the various pieces Aaron found—and Daryl had never been more proud of anything he’d done in his entire life than when he twisted the key and the engine roared to life.

Before they left Rick stopped to talk to Daryl.

“Be careful out there,” Rick said, hesitating a moment, “Don’t take chances; don’t let him keep you out longer than you need to be.”

Daryl shrugged, “I always do. And he said he just wanted to do a quick mission, so we get a feel for each other.” Daryl realized how that sounded and shot Rick a glance to see if the other man had caught it.

Rick hadn’t, his sense of humor seemed to be on vacation and had been since Richmond, “Things are settled here, but if they go bad then I’ll _need you_. Understand?”

Daryl nodded, and Rick clasped his shoulder. Daryl an unpleasant sense of deja vu, Merle leaning in close and saying they were going to rob the Atlanta camp. He wanted to say something but didn’t know what; he knew very well that Rick could be right about this place. He also knew who Rick was at the end of the day, and trusted him. Hopefully things would settle down, blow over. _And Michonne’s here,_ Daryl thought, _she’ll keep him from getting into too much trouble._

******

They should have known something was up their first night out. That was as long as it took to find the remains of a campfire and a dead woman, naked and tied to a tree. Well, most of her at least. Someone had hacked off her arms and legs and carved the letter “W” into her forehead. Daryl was more disturbed by the mutilation than the murder itself, and when he looked at Aaron he saw the other man was pale. The dead woman looked fresh, and the ashes of her campfire had still been warm. This happened not long before Aaron and Daryl found her. Daryl drew out his knife and put the walker down, feeling vaguely dirty as he did so. Guilty, too, irrational as that was. A few hours difference and they could have found her while she was still alive.

“There’s bad people out here,” Aaron murmured, as if he sensed Daryl’s thoughts, “That’s why we have to find the good ones. Be sure about them.”

The next day they found someone else, a guy in a bright red poncho that could be seen for miles. They lost track of him at one point, and in the process of searching for him found an abandoned cannery. Which brought into question what their mission was. There was half a dozen trailers lined up at the cannery’s loading dock, if any _one_ of them still had food it would set Alexandria up for months. But if they stopped to look it meant giving up on Red Poncho, just leaving him to his fate. He thought of the mutilated woman they’d found the previous evening and shuddered. Daryl wanted to keep looking for Red Poncho, didn’t like the idea of the guy out here with those monsters who mutilated the woman they’d found. Didn’t like the idea of Red Poncho running around so close to Alexandria if he was one of the monsters who mutilated the woman. Aaron overruled him, saying that the food was more important.

“When we find people,” Aaron said, “we’re going to have to be able to feed them.”

Daryl didn’t put up much of a fight, he could see the sense in what Aaron was saying. It would be just one more thing on Daryl’s long list of regrets.

Things went to hell almost immediately. Daryl opened up one of the trailers to inspect inside and found it crammed full of walkers. Not only that, but the trailers were rigged, opening one opened all of the others and they were all filled with walkers. In the mad dash to escape the growing horde Daryl vaguely noted many of them had the letter “W” carved on their foreheads.

He didn’t have much time to dwell on it, he and Aaron were barely able to outrun the horde, taking shelter in an abandoned car. They were surrounded in seconds, the dead pressing against the glass and snarling.

“The glass should hold for a few hours,” Aaron said. He was pale and sweating, blue eyes wide and flickering around. His voice was even though, and Daryl admired him a hell of a lot. Guy was able to keep his cool in a situation like this, no wonder he’d lasted as long as he had doing regular recruiting missions.

Daryl looked around them, at the horde surrounding the car, and chuckled quietly while digging in his pockets for his cigarettes and a lighter.

“What?” Aaron asked.

Daryl didn’t know if he could properly explain.He tried to do it as best as he could, “I came out here to…not feel all closed up back there. Even now…this still feels more like me than back in them houses.That’s pretty messed up, huh?” _I think we’re gonna die and I’m ok with this development,_ was another thing he thought but he did not say it. That was funny too, in a way.

When he glanced over he saw Aaron was smiling at him with quiet sympathy, “You were trying.”

“I had to,” Daryl said dismissively.

“No, you didn’t,” Aaron insisted, “Listen, I saw you with your group out there on the road. Then when you went off on your own by the barn. Storm hit, and you led your people to safety. That was it. I knew I had to bring you people back. You were right. We should have kept looking for that guy in the poncho. I shouldn’t have given up. You didn’t.”

Daryl wanted to say that was just because he was too damned stubborn to give up anymore, even if he didn’t know _why_ he still kept going after everything. Maybe because he kept fucking up and thought he needed to live long enough to make up for it. Die with some bit of purpose. He didn’t know when he’d get a chance for that, if Alexandria worked out then they’d found a place for the people that mattered most to him.

_You promised you wouldn’t die on me, Dixon._

Daryl put the cigarette in his mouth and lit it up. It was stale and disgusting like all cigarettes were these days. Still scratched the itch, still gave him the nicotine buzz. There was a metaphor for his life at the moment right there, sucking on stale cigarettes because the habit was just too strong to break. Aaron was right, he’d been trying. Trying since that day a year and a half ago when he heard the recording saying “no survivors.” Kept on trying even after losing Merle, thenSophia, then Merle all fucking over again, then the prison, then Beth, then Tyreese.

There had been many, many, _many_ times over the past year and a half when he thought he might to die. When he was about to do something and knew that he _could_ die. When faced with a deliberate _choice_ to die. He was thinking of getting injured on Hershel’s farm, of wanting it to be over. Of offering himself up to the Claimers when they attacked Michonne and the Grimes family. He hadn’t exactly been clear headed in either instance—first one he was injured so bad he was hallucinating, second one happened too fast for him to really think about it.

 _Babe, I know what I promised,_ Daryl mentally said to Paul’s memory. He hadn’t talked to his dead boyfriend in a while, even inside his head, _But I’m tired. Tired of losing people. Tired of missing you._

“I’ll go,” Daryl said, taking a few puffs off the cigarette, “I’ll lead them out. You make a break for that fence.”

“No, no, no,” Aaron protested instantly, “This was was my fault.”

“It wasn’t a question,” Daryl said firmly, “Ain’t your decision. Anyways, you got more to think about than just you. Got Eric back there waitin’. Just let me finish my smoke.” Daryl wondered idly if there was anything on the other side. Paul would be waiting for him if there was, Daryl had no doubt about that. Maybe Merle and Beth would be there too.

“No,” Aaron said firmly, “I wouldn’t deserve someone like Eric anyway if I let you do that. We fight. We do it together. Whether we make it or not, we do it together.”

Daryl wanted to argue, wanted to tell Aaron he was being a goddamned fool, that if Daryl still had what he had then the other man would be walker food right now.

_I wouldn’t deserve someone like Eric anyway if I let you do that._

Fuck.

“Alright,” Daryl said, taking a few more hits off his cigarette then getting his knife ready, “We’ll go on three.”

Aaron got his machete ready, gripping the handle and tensing up.

“One,” Daryl said, “Two…”

Before he could say “three” he saw the head of one of the walkers surrounding the car cave in. He saw a glimpse of someone moving through the window, another walker’s head caving in. He and Aaron exchanged a look then shoved their way out into the herd. Daryl was surrounded by the dead in seconds, they converged on him, not as many as should have, some were being drawn away…

He got a quick glimpse as to why they were being drawn from the car. There was a living guy with a giant staff helping Aaron get clear of the walkers. He was a fucking _badass_ with that staff, it snapped out again and again and each time he hit a walker’s skull it would drop down with its head caved in. After this long most walkers’ heads were rotted and soft but it still must take a _hell_ of a lot of strength and precision to do that.

Daryl was too busy fighting off walkers and running to really question their sudden deliverance or who the hell their badass rescuer was. He felt crazily elated by the sudden whiplash of emotions. Had he really been ready to die not five minutes ago?

The three men ran until they reached the security fence surrounding the cannery, scrambled through, and shut it behind them. The dead clumped up against the fence—a chainlink number that looked sturdy but would definitely give away eventually. Still they’d have a moment to gather themselves and find out who their new best friend was. As they caught their breath Daryl was able to get a good look at him for the first time. Daryl saw that he was a middle-aged black guy, on the shorter side, and handsome in an understated way. He was dressed in traveling clothes—a rain poncho (not red, unfortunately) and a heavy duty backpack.

“That was,” Aaron panted, “oh…thank you. I’m Aaron, this is Daryl.”

Their rescuer considered them for a moment before he said, “Morgan.”

“Why?” Daryl asked, trying to catch his breath. The guy had taken a pretty big risk to rescue two strangers. On a _chance_ to rescue two strangers, since the there was no way their new friend Morgan could have them clearly inside the car through all those walkers. For all he could have known the people inside the car were bit or dead already.

Morgan turned his attention to Daryl. He gave a smile, and there was nothing understated about his handsomeness then. His answer was, “Why? Because all life is precious, Daryl.”

 _What the fuck kind of answer is that?_ Daryl thought to himself.

Aaron was talking, telling Morgan about Alexandria, too overcome with gratitude to worry about being sure. Morgan listened, thanked them politely, then said he was looking for somebody.

“Fact is I’m lost,” Morgan said, digging into his pocket and producing a map, “If one of you could tell me where we are…?”

Daryl took the map from his hands. Someone had written a message on it, the handwriting strangely familiar:

_Sorry I was an asshole. Come to Washington. The new world is gonna need RICK GRIMES._

******

The first thing Daryl thought when he found out everything that happened back at Alexandria while he’d been on his recruiting mission was, _I was only gone three days._

In those three days Deanna’s son had died on a run with Glenn, and so had Noah. That one stung even if Daryl hadn’t gotten to know Noah that well, being too wrapped up in himself on the journey to DC. But he was part of the group and Beth had cared about him, had _died_ for him. The next bit of fuckery was that one of their neighbors had gone insane and made the tremendously stupid decision to get in a fight with Rick. Daryl’s brother in all but blood wasn’t the sort to take that well and responded by going just as insane, even took it up a notch. He was threatening the entire community and would probably have killed someone if Michonne hadn’t knocked him out. The Alexandrians had been on the verge of exiling him from the community. All of it was capped off when crazy neighbor went even crazier and killed Deanna’s husband. Her response to this was to tell Rick to execute the fucker. This was the scene that Daryl, Aaron, and Rick’s old friend Morgan stumbled on immediately upon their return.

After that it was as though the coup had happened without them even trying. Deanna, grieving over her son and husband, withdrew and basically put Rick in charge. There were a few tense days where Daryl thought things would come to a head, thought the original generation of Alexandria would turn against the newcomers.

Before it could they found the quarry.

******

Rick’s first order of business was to detain Morgan so that he could be questioned. That didn’t sit right with Daryl, not even when Michonne explained the last time they saw Morgan the man was riding high on the crazy train. _He saved our lives and he didn’t have to,_ Daryl thought. He didn’t try and argue, though. Rick seemed pretty adamant about it.

Another thing he and Rick didn’t see eye-to-eye on was going out and finding more people. After he talked to Morgan and found out what happened at the cannery and the walkers with the Ws on their forehead he told Daryl he was going to advise Deanna to put runs on hold.

“You feel different about it?” Rick asked when Daryl didn’t respond to that announcement.

“Yeah, I do,” Daryl said. He was thinking of the mutilated woman they’d found, naked and bound to a tree. He was thinking of the guy in the red poncho, out there with the animals who would do a thing like that.

Rick looked like he had read Daryl’s mind, “Listen,” he said, “the people out there, they got to look out for themselves. Like we need to look out for us.”

Daryl wanted to argue with him, wanted to say that was what they _did_ , that’s how they ran things at the prison. Went out and looked for people, brought them in.

He didn’t, however. Rick seemed different than he had three days ago before Daryl left. When Daryl left there was a simmering tension beneath the other man’s skin and he was scheming with Carol about taking over. Now he seemed more like himself, and Daryl supposed Michonne literally knocking some sense into him had something to do with it. So Daryl said nothing, just nodded.

******

It seemed like they could never just catch one fucking break. Rick let Morgan out much to Daryl’s relief, and the two of them decided to play catch-up by going out to bury the body of the crazy asshole Rick executed. Rick was adamant that he wouldn’t be buried inside the walls, which was a bit of a dick move since the guy’s wife and kids were still around but Daryl understood it.

Daryl was working on his bike when the two men returned. Rick came up to him and said, “I sent Morgan to gather everyone up, the whole community. But I need to talk to you, Michonne, and Carol first. There’s a big fucking problem.”

“Big fucking problem” was an understatement when it came to what they’d found in the quarry, which was walkers. _Thousands_ of them. Turned out a group had camped out at the bottom, blocking the entrance with trucks as a way to stay safe. Something happened, they all ended up dead and turned, shuffling and moaning at the bottom of that quarry. Over the past year and a half since the end more walkers were drawn in by the sound, which made more noise, which in turn drew in even more walkers.

 _No wonder they haven’t had to deal with as many walkers as they should have,_ Daryl thought. There should have been more walkers lining up at the walls, back at the prison they were a constant nuisance and required round the clock teams clearing them out. The Alexandria safe zone was even bigger, noisier, and in what was a more heavily populated area.

According to Rick the trucks blocking off the quarry were destabilized and could fall at any minute. When that happened the walkers could leave, start heading east.

Right for Alexandria.

Rick’s idea to prevent this would be to build up walls as well as use larger vehicles to block off parts of the road in order to funnel the walkers in a particular direction. Meanwhile give them something to follow, guide them west away from the community. Daryl didn’t even wait for Rick to finish speaking before he volunteered for that part.

The difficulty was getting the rest of Alexandria to sign on to the plan, they were afraid. Thought it was too risky. Wanted to fortify the quarry so the walkers couldn’t get out. Leave them there like a nest of hornets behind a sheet of drywall and just hope they never got out.

Deanna, for all that she had mentally checked out following the deaths of her husband and youngest son, threw her weight and voice behind Rick’s plan. That quieted the Alexandrians some, but not completely.

******

Dinner at Aaron and Eric’s house was rabbit stew, the rabbit provided by Daryl. Eric helped Aaron cook, he was less squeamish about handling the meat. Daryl sat at their kitchen table, watching them. It was a pretty _involved_ process, not helped by Eric using what was left of the rabbit’s head as a puppet to gross Aaron out, opening and closing its jaw and saying in a high-pitched voice, “ _No, don’t eat me, Aaron!_ ”

“I just don’t like eating things that are looking at me,” Aaron muttered, then to Daryl, “You couldn’t have given me a break? Cut off Bugs’ head?”

“Waste of food,” Daryl muttered, “The brains is real good eatin’.”

Aaron looked sick and Eric looked curious, but in the end they respected Aaron’s sensibilities and left the brains out of the stew.

It was day three of the quarry project, absolutely everyone was busy with that and everything else had taken second priority. Even Eric was hobbling out with the work teams to help as much as he could. So much shit had happened so fast Daryl hadn’t gotten a chance to talk Aaron about Rick’s decision to suspend recruitment.

“He’s got a point,” Aaron said reluctantly as the three men ate dinner, “But…”

“But it don’t feel right,” Daryl finished, then delicately, “We lost a couple people, we need new people to come in. Or we’ll just die out.”

Aaron sighed, “I agree, and I don’t like the idea of…” he waved his hand in the air, “Those people who rigged the trucks. They’re out there.”

“If they come here we’ll deal with ‘em,” Daryl said, “Shouldn’t just let a group of bogey men scare us off.”

“After we deal with the quarry herd,” Aaron said, “I’d like to talk to Rick about reinstating the recruiting mission.”

“Hell yeah,” Daryl said, “I’ll talk to him about it. We just need to clean up this mess first.”

*****

Daryl was coming back from Aaron and Eric’s, sliding in the shadows between the two houses Deanna had given the group. As he rounded the corner of the main house he heard Rick and Glenn’s voices coming from the porch, and he paused. He could tell from the tone of both their voices they were discussing some heavy fucking shit and wouldn’t appreciate an interruption. He hovered in the shadows, listening.

“I’m…I’m scared out of my fucking mind, actually,” he heard Glenn say with a little laugh. Daryl thought at first he talking about the job they had to do and was confused. Yes, there were thousands of walkers trapped in that quarry, more than they’d ever seen in one place and anything could go wrong; but Glenn was one of the bravest people Daryl had ever met.

Then he heard Rick’s voice, soft and fatherly, saying, “That’s normal. Before Carl was born, before Lori got pregnant…I thought I knew what being scared was. I didn’t.”

It dawned on Daryl then, and his fingers jittered against his leg as he stood frozen in the shadows, listening to a conversation he had no right to overhear.

“How do you make it go away?” Glenn asked.

“It doesn’t, you just learn to live with it,” Rick replied.

“I was afraid you’d say that,” Glenn said, giving another little laugh without much humor.

“Listen, it’s worth it. That’s another thing you don’t realize until it happens to you. For right now the thing to remember is Maggie’s just as scared as you if not more, you need to do what you can to help her live with it. It won’t…” Rick’s voice choked off and Daryl heard him clear his throat before he continued, “It won’t be like what happened with Lori. We’ve got a doctor, Denise, here. She can help.”

Glenn sighed, “I just…I keep going over it in my mind. Everything that can go wrong, everything she needs…everything _they_ need…”

“It’s gonna be ok,” Rick said with conviction, “We’ll all be here to help. You’re going to be good at this; Hershel would be proud.”

Daryl was able to make his legs start working again and he walked slowly towards the back of the house. He come inside that way, through the kitchen door. He felt guilty for listening in, as well as a sharp pain that came from remembering a few months before the end when he sat down in front of Paul’s computer to check the baseball scores and found the browser open to a page on requirements for foster parents in the state of Georgia.

Daryl had closed the browser and logged out as quick as he could, glad Paul wasn’t home to see how rattled he was. He went outside to smoke and toss Lou her frisbee, mind whirring away. Paul hadn’t so much as _hinted_ that was something he wanted, they’d talked about marriage but never kids. He spent weeks on pins and needles, going over what he would say if Paul brought it up, debating with himself whether or not he should bring it up himself. He remembered being so terrified he thought he might be sick. Fuck, what would he know about being a dad? His only example of fatherhood didn’t deserve the name. The idea that somehow he could one day end up like his father haunted Daryl, that his temper might flare and he’d give any kid he was responsible for a whupping. One so bad it left scars.

It took him until baby Judy was born for him to realize he’d been worried over a whole lot of nothing. She wasn’t even his but from the first time he held her Daryl knew he could never hurt her in any way. He’d cut his hand off before he raised it to her, and with that realization came the one that it was the already same when it came to Carl. He still didn’t think he’d be _good_ at being a parent but Paul would have made up for any deficiencies on Daryl’s part. It was a realization that came with more bitterness than anything else; it didn’t matter how good or bad Daryl would’ve been at being a father. Paul died before they could even talk about it, before Daryl could figure out if it was something the other man seriously wanted or just an idle thought.

*****

The plan started going to hell almost immediately, so when Daryl saw the gang of bandits on motorcycles blocking the road on the way back to Alexandria his first thought was a resigned, _o_ _f course._

The first hitch in the plan was the Alexandrians themselves. They were afraid of what it would mean to redirect the herd away from the settlement. These people were soft, they had hot showers and air conditioning and walls keeping out what dead weren’t drawn in by the quarry. Rick’s plan was dangerous and required more out of them then most were ready for. A small group of them even started talking of rebelling against Rick, killing him and taking back the community.

Then the trucks blocking off the quarry and keeping the thousands of walkers trapped inside gave in just as they were going through their first dry run of the plan, meaning they had to start a day early without practicing beforehand.

They got things on track, but that was when they heard the sound of the horns blaring, back at Alexandria, causing half the herd to turn back around. Ever since that happened Daryl had been fighting against every instinct he possessed that was screaming at him to go _back_ and help. Carol was there, as well as Carl and baby Judy. Aaron and Eric. Maggie, who was pregnant, who had Glenn scared out of his mind. He _did_ turn back around and start back at first, leaving Abe and Sasha behind to deal with the herd. He’d been on his bike and they were following him in a car, going at a pace just faster than walking, the thousands of walkers mere yards behind them. It was nerve-wracking.

He came back to Abe and Sasha in the end. It was one of the most difficult things he’d ever done in his life, trust the others to take care of themselves while he helped get rid of this mass of walkers first.

Things were looking up, they’d led the herd a safe distance from Alexandria, they were about to turn around and head back when they were ambushed. Daryl wasn’t sure who those assholes were, just that they separated him from Sasha and Abe, forced him off the road, and made him run into that asshole Dwight and his asshole family.

He was still enraged over that as he drove back to the Alexandria Safe Zone with Abe and Sasha. He could barely find the words to speak to tell them about it.

“They _robbed_ you? After you _helped_ them?” Sasha said angrily.

“Yeah,” Daryl glowered, “My bike, my bow…just left me to fend for myself. Even said ‘sorry’ after.”

“Motherfuckers,” Abraham growled. He was riding shotgun, Sasha squeezed between them, “At least because of them you were able to find this tanker.”

“Don’t make much of a difference to me,” Daryl grumbled. The tanker in question was a fuel tanker, the asshole trio had led him right to it before robbing him and taking off.

“Well, it ain’t as cool as the RPG I found,” Abraham said.

Daryl was just thinking that Abraham was right and it _was_ pretty fucking cool, when they were stopped by the motorcycle gang. He wondered if they were part of the group that chased them earlier, the same one that Dwight McAsshole and his family had been running from.

There were eight them, hard-looking guys in leather and heavily armed with machine guns and pistols. Seven sat astride their bikes, their leader was on his feet next to his own leaning casually against the handlebars.

“Why don’t you come out? Join us in the road,” the leader called out.

Daryl exchanged a glance with Abraham and Sasha, wordlessly asking what they wanted to do. He could try ramming them, could try throwing the truck in reverse and attempting to outrun them.

Sasha slowly shook her head, and after a beat Abraham did too. Daryl knew they were right, and both those options would get all three of them killed. He put the truck in park, killed the engine, and the three of them climbed out of the truck.

“That’s great!” the leader called out, “Going well right out of the gate! Now, step two: Hand over your weapons.”

“Why should we?” Daryl growled at him.

“Well, they’re not yours.”

“Whose are they?” Sasha snarled.

The leader stepped forward, “Your property now belongs to Negan,” he paused for a beat, clearly enjoying the dramatics of the whole thing, “And if you can get your hands on a tanker, then you’re people our person wants to know.”

He paused again, then crossed the remaining distance to the three of them. He stood in front of Daryl and asked for his sidearm, smirking up at him. He was short, Daryl realized. A short, middle-aged guy with greasy dark hair that contrasted with his grey beard. Daryl flicked his eyes over the little turd’s shoulder—the rest of the gang had their weapons trained on them.

 _I’m going to kill you,_ Daryl thought as he reached behind his back to retrieve his gun.

“Thank you,” the Leader said, moving down the line to Sasha and thanking her just as sweetly when she handed over her gun.

When he reached Abraham the big guy looked down at him. Daryl could see in the set of the man’s jaw that Abe was doing all he could to keep himself from picking this smug little asshole off the ground and breaking him in half. Said smug asshole clearly sensed it as well, which caused him to up the smugness,“If you have to each shit…best not to nibble. Bite, chew, swallow, repeat. Goes quicker.”

Abe hesitated a beat longer before handing over his pistol. The douchebag gave Abe a little smile and mouthed, “Thank you,” before strolling back to his group.

“Who are you people?” Sasha said, eyes murderous.

“I get the curiosity,” the leader said, “But we have questions ourselves. And we’ll be the ones asking them while we drive you back to wherever it is you call home. First though, your shit. What have you got for us?”

“Yeah, you just took it,” Daryl grumbled.

The leader just sighed, “Come on, can we not? There’s more. There’s always more.” When none of the three of them moved he gestured over his shoulder, “T? Take my man to the back of the trunk, start at the back bumper, work your way to the front.”

“T” turned out to be a middle-aged guy in a baseball cap. He looked like someone’s dad, or maybe like one of Neighbor Dan’s buddies. He shoved Daryl by the shoulders toward the back of the van, gun raised. Daryl stalked to the back of the truck. Opened the back of the truck.

“After you,” T said.

Daryl glared and jumped up into the back of the truck. He hadn’t been lying, there wasn’t any shit in the tanker. Just the wooden crate that housed the RPG, which T narrowed in on.

“Open that up,” T said.

“It’s a RPG,” Daryl said, kneeling down, lifting the top off. T crowded up behind him, peering over Daryl’s shoulder.

“Ho-leeeee shee-it,” T said, getting an eyeful. He was only distracted for a second and only lowered his gun an inch. That was all Daryl needed.

He lashed his arm back and grabbed the barrel of the gun, jerking it forward with all his strength. At the same time he shot up straight, smashing his head back into good ol’ T’s guts. T was already stumbling forward, off balance due to Daryl jerking on his weapon. The force of Daryl’s blow coupled with gravity knocked the other man breathless. Then it was a mad scramble that end up with Daryl on top of the bastard, choking him with the strap of his own gun. At that point it was all down to main strength, Daryl’s verses this asshole on the ground. T tried to shove up, tried to throw Daryl off of him. Daryl jerked the gun strap tighter. The man’s hands flailed around, scrabbling at Daryl’s arms and shoulders. There was a bite of pain in one shoulder, Daryl realized the asshole had gotten a hold of a knife. With one final burst of effort Daryl jerked on the gun strap and was rewarded with the dull snap of a broken neck. The other man went still, face blue and eyes bulging out.

Daryl didn’t stop to take a breath, the fight had only lasted a minute or so but anything could have happened to Abe and Sasha in that minute. He barely felt the warm blood trickling down his shoulder blade as he scrambled to the crate that held the RPG. He studied the weapon for a split second—he knew how they worked, had fired a few back when he was running around with Merle and his gang. That group had all sorts of shit they liked to take out to the middle of nowhere to blow shit up. He tugged the RPG out, memories of the Savage Sons standing around crowing for Daryl to shoot crowding his mind as he made sure it was loaded properly. Then he unscrewed the safety cap at the tip of the rocket and slung the entire thing over his shoulder. He jumped down from the back of the truck, he could hear the leader rambling on, talking about killing Abe and Sasha. Daryl took less than five seconds to aim, he didn’t need an exact hit at this range.

“I’m not gonna kill you,” the leader said, then almost immediately, “Oh. Wait. Yes I—“ he was just raising his guns again when Daryl cocked the hammer of the RPG then pulled the trigger.

It all happened very fast. The streak of fire as the rocket flew toward the gang of motorcycles. The concussive blast when it detonated. The bloom of a fireball that swallowed the entire group of both men and bikes. The shower of charred body parts falling to the ground among the wreckage of metal.

Daryl stepped forward, craning his neck to where Sasha and Abe had been knocked off their feet. Sasha was clutching one ear with her hand and Abe looked a little dazed but other than that they were fine. Daryl removed the launcher from his shoulder, blinking at it in disbelief.

 _Holy shit that was fucking awesome,_ shouted a voice in his head that sounded a lot like Merle.

Sasha and Abraham staggered over to him.

“Son of a bitch was tougher than he looked,” Daryl said by way of apology, gesturing to the back of the truck where the dead bandit was sprawled out.

“Did he cut you?” Sasha said, going to his side.

“A little,” Daryl said. The adrenaline rush of the fight was fading and he was out of breath. He studied the charred remains of the gang, there were a few burnt out frames but the bikes were all as destroyed as the men were. Some of them had been pretty sweet bikes.“What a bunch of assholes.”

He felt Sasha tug out the rag he usually kept in his back pocket then press it against his wound. “Let’s get you fixed up at home,” she said.

“Yes ma’am,” Daryl replied, climbing into the back of the truck.

******

 _I wasn’t even gone three days this time,_ was what Daryl thought when he came back to the Alexandria Safe Zone. The entire place was overrun by walkers, about half the herd. He wouldn’t find out until much later that they weren’t the only calamity that befell Alexandria while he was away. His first hours back involved using the gas from the tanker and the RPG to set the ornamental pond in the center of Alexandria on fire. The walkers were drawn to the blaze, and every able-bodied man and woman in the community came out to fight.

It was a hell of a thing.

He didn’t find out that Carl had been hit by a stray bullet until later, when he was being stitched up in the infirmary by Denise, the Safe Zone’s other doctor. She was a shy, nervous woman except when she was tending to her patients, confidently stitching up Daryl’s shoulder wound.

Half the community was outside the infirmary holding vigil for Carl, the kid was in a bad way. The bullet had caught him in his right eye, just the right angle to avoid his brains.

When Denise was done stitching Daryl up he put his shirt back on and went in search of Rick. His friend was pale, leaning over Carl’s sickbed and holding the boy’s hand. Michonne stood at the door watching them, Judith in her arms. Daryl was hit with a powerful sense of deja vu. Lori and Rick hovering by Carl’s bedside, both parents drawn and anguished, waiting for the kid to wake up. Daryl found his fingers going to the scar just above his ear, from where Andrea had grazed him way back on Hershel’s farm.

“How’s he doing?” Daryl asked Michonne.

She didn’t take her eyes off of Rick and Carl when she answered him, “Rick said he moved a bit just now. Squeezed his hand.”

“How are _you_ doing?”

“Hanging in there,” she said. Judith fussed a little in her arms and Michonne rocked her gently, murmuring soothing nonsense.

“I can take her back to the house for a bit, if you need a break. Or stay here with Rick while you take her back.”

Michonne finally looked at him. Her eyes were bloodshot and she looked like she’d aged ten years. “Do you mind? I don’t want to leave, I need to be here when he wakes up…” she trailed off.

“Me ’n Lil’ Asskicker will be alright,” Daryl said, taking the child from Michonne’s arms. Her tiny hands gripped at his tattered shirt and she thunked her head against his shoulder, obviously tuckered out. Lot of excitement today.

Before he left the infirmary he told Michonne, “Kid’s gonna be just fine. He’s too much like his Daddy to give up now.”

******

Daryl didn’t find out about the Wolves until he talked to Carol the next morning.

“They came over the walls, started slaughtering people. Had the letter ‘W’ carved on their heads, just like those walkers you saw.”

“Think this was all of ‘em?” Daryl asked, disturbed. He flashed back to the mutilated woman he found just a week ago with Aaron, and wondered about the guy with the red poncho.

“I hope so,” Carol replied. There was something dark and strange in her eyes for a moment.

“How’d they find us?”

Carol hesitated, and that dark, strange look in her eyes faded. Instead she was just seemed calmly sympathetic, “They found Aaron’s backpack. He said he lost it back at the cannery, when those boobytraps went off.”

Daryl’s heart lurched. Fucking fuck. It was too much to bear for a brief moment.

“Hey,” Carol said quickly, “They would have found us anyway. Eventually.”

Hearing that from her didn’t help. His mind kept going over different things he could have done, if he’d just been more _convincing_ to Aaron about searching for the man in the red poncho. If he’d been smarter about opening the trucks back at the cannery. _Fuck._ Another person who thought he was worth a damn, another person who Daryl had let down.

 _You know the difference between a good person and a bad person,_ Aaron had said that to him when he suggested Daryl join him for recruiting missions.

 _I couldn’t think of anyone better,_ Rick had said that to him when he asked Daryl to be on the prison council.

 _I wish you were coming with me,_ Paul had said that to him on that last night before he left for Chicago.

It kept fucking happening, Daryl kept fucking up, again and _again._ What fucking curse did he bear, where good people thought he was worth more than what he was? He hadn’t been able to recognize Dwight for the piece of shit he was, he hadn’t recognized the Governor for the threat he was, and he hadn’t recognized how important that trip to Chicago was for Paul.

******

The next few weeks saw Daryl buried in that same fog of self recrimination. Staying in it was easy, everyone was distracted. The entire community had to pitch in, which meant Daryl couldn’t avoid Aaron. He could barely look at the other man, overcome with guilt. Thank god there was so much to do, kept his mind from being overwhelmed. Bodies needed to be cleared out—walkers to be burned, their own to be buried in the little cemetery.

The walls surrounding the community needed to be repaired, and the walls they’d built to funnel the herd needed to be torn down. They were like a giant road sign pointing toward Alexandria, better to wipe out any trace of them. Houses cleaned. Damaged solar panels repaired. Carl to help recover.

The kid was in a very bad way the first few weeks, uncoordinated and barely able to talk. He got better slowly, a little each day. He was also in a _lot_ of pain, getting bad headaches that left him shut up in the closest of his room where it was dark and quiet.

One morning Daryl was up in his attic bedroom and heard the sound of glass shattering on the floor below. When he raced down with a knife in hand he found the door to the bathroom wide open. He looked inside and saw the mirror over the sink had been shattered. Carl was slumped over on the floor of the bathroom crying. Rick and Michonne were on the floor next to him, both of them with their arms around him. Daryl left without saying a word.

Denise came over once a day to check how Carl was healing and just to talk to him. She was a terrific doctor but had been a shrink before the end of the world, talking to folks seemed to be her preferred area. She tried to get Daryl to talk to her but he shut her down each time. She never got offended.

Daryl finally started talking to her a little when he realized that Carl at least was seeing some benefit from it. Not too much, but a little. He liked her, liked her even more when Tara moved in with her. It was nice to know that he, Aaron, and Eric weren’t the only gay folks left.

******

It was more than a month before Alexandria was returned to the state it was in prior to being overrun by the herd. More than a month before the work was done and they were able to go out on a run. It was badly needed, they were low on food after a month of no scavenging missions to help supplement the food stores.

Everyone was exhausted; Maggie had been dealing with morning sickness which meant Glenn hadn’t gotten much rest himself. Eric was out of commission due to fucking up his ankle again during the battle against the dead to reclaim Alexandria and Aaron didn’t want to leave him.

“Let’s you and me go out,” Rick said one evening, “Just like the old days.”

“Sure you can get away?” Daryl replied. Deanna Monroe had been one of the casualties when the dead invaded and Rick had stepped effortlessly into her shoes.

“Just a quick run, we can be back before dark,” Rick answered. Despite all the shit that had happened Rick was weirdly serene, and had been for awhile. Carl was doing much better, up and moving around and talking to Denise seemed to be working out his issues with his face. The people of Alexandria had proved themselves in battle, had fought together as one and protected the community.Rick was feeling all kinds of hopeful, talking to Daryl about the future, about life in Alexandria ten or twenty years from then.

Daryl wished he could share his friend’s enthusiasm. His mind was still stuck on the fact that the Wolves had found Alexandria. Still stuck on the mistake he’d made with Dwight. Still stuck on a lot of things. Nevertheless, he agreed to go out with Rick the following morning

******

Before they left Daryl met up with Denise to see if she had any special requests for medical supplies, assuming they’d found any. She handed Daryl a long list that he squinted at, holding it away from his face to make out her handwriting. He didn’t know what half the shit she’d written down was, just had to hope Rick would know. Underneath all the medical supplies she had drawn a thick black line, and underneath that had written “ _orange crush, as many cans as you can find.”_

When Daryl questioned her about it she got nervous and flush, quickly assuring him that he didn’t have to go out of way, it wasn’t important, it was only if he happened to see it. He let her babble for a minute; she’d saved Carl and for that alone she deserved anything she wanted no matter how frivolous.

“You like it, right?” Daryl asked when she was done.

“Oh, I don’t drink pop,” Denise said.

“‘Pop’? You from Indiana or somethin’?” Daryl asked, squinting at the list.

“Ohio,” Denise replied, looking a surprised that Daryl had guessed somewhere in the right ballpark.

Daryl asked her why she wanted it if she didn’t like it, and she haltingly explained it was for Tara.

“She keeps talking about it in her sleep,” Denise said, “So, either she likes it, or she doesn’t. But I figure if she likes it, it would be a nice surprise…” she twisted her hands nervously, “I’m not good at stuff like this.”

Daryl’s heart clenched as he stared at Denise’s nervous face. “It’s a good idea,” he said, voice hoarse, “I’ll get it for you.”

******

“Today’s the day,” Rick said confidently as they set out in an old Chrysler, “We’re going to find food, maybe some people. The law of averages has got to catch up.”

Daryl pointed out that they hadn’t seen any new people in weeks. That maybe it was a good thing. For all they knew the only people left were Wolves or like the group who accosted him, Abraham, and Sasha on the road. Or just sniveling little shits like Dwight had been.

Rick ignored Daryl’s grousing, sliding in a CD of some cheesy country music as they drove down the road. It was worse than any of the nerd rock that Paul ever played for him.

They lucked out early in the day. Eugene had given them a map of all the agricultural supply centers in the area, and they found the truck in the third place on the map. When he and Rick opened up there were cans of soup, bottles of water, boxes of dried pasta, and case of tooth paste. The last bit made Rick grin, he pulled out one of the tubes of toothpaste like Arthur pulling out the sword from the stone. Daryl didn’t ask.

They left the car behind and drove the truck, Rick talking about the law of averages all the way. They took a different route back, which is how they spotted the abandoned gas station.

“Stop here,” Daryl said as they drew close. Rick did, and Daryl got out to do a quick search. The gas station itself looked like it had been looted, but there was a vending machine that had been knocked over in front of the store. It was face down, and Daryl found it was too heavy when he tried to push it right side up, even when Rick joined in. Rick was ready to give up but Daryl wasn’t. The truck had a length of chain and a towing hitch, they would _drag_ the vending machine all the way back to Alexandria if necessary.

Fortunately they didn’t have to go that far, with the truck they were carefully tug the vending machine right side up. “I don’t get it,” Rick said, watching Daryl inspect the machine, “It’s soda and candy. Why go to the trouble?”

Daryl shook his head, “Wasn’t any trouble. Besides, it was a special request from the Doc.” He smashed the glass covering open with the tire iron he’d found in the truck and started rooting around. _Hell yeah,_ he thought to himself. There was orange Crush in there, and Daryl pulled out a few cans and started loading up his pack.

“Might as well take it all,” Rick said, going back to the truck for another bag. “Nice treat for the kids, at least.”

“Mmmm hmmm,” Daryl mumbled distractedly, digging through the piles of candy. There were no Sour Patch Kids in the vending machine, but there were a few bags of sour gummy worms. Daryl felt them through the crinkling wrapper, they were hard as rocks.

“You ready to go?” Rick asked him once they had taken everything still edible from the vending machine. Daryl pocketed the bag of sour gummy worms and got to his feet. “Yeah,” Daryl said. He and Rick unwrapped the chains from around the vending machine then got back on the road.

******

“Food’s gonna last us awhile,” Rick mused as they drove back.

“Mmmhmm,” Daryl replied, digging into some of the candy, “Maybe we won’t have to go back out again for awhile.”

Rick sighed, “You tried to tell me weeks ago that we shouldn’t stop looking for people. You were right.”

“No, _you_ were right,” Daryl insisted. Weeks ago he hadn’t met that fucker Dwight, or been ambushed by a gang of assholes on motorcycles , or led a pack of wolves back to Alexandria.

Rick shook his head, “ _No._ We need to keep growing, keep finding people. You tried to tell me, but I wasn’t listening. I am now.”

******

It was getting dark by the time they reached Alexandria. They’d taken a meandering route home but found nothing more. Not like anyone could complain, the truck was something you only found in one run out of a hundred. They triumphantly pulled the truck all the way inside, right up to the church and started unloading supplies. Rick grabbed a tube of toothpaste and headed back to the house. Said he was beat. Daryl felt the same but wasn’t quite ready for bed yet. Instead he went to the house Denise was sharing with Tara to drop off her sodas. When she saw the orange Crush she moved forward like she was going to hug him before stopping herself. “Thank you,” she said. Excitement had changed her cheeks a pretty pink color, “Just…thank you. Do you want to come in? Eat dinner?”

Daryl shook his head, “I’m going to head back home, turn in. Was a long day.”

“Let me give you something to take with you, at least,” Denise insisted.

By the time Daryl reached the house he shared with the Grimes family it was full dark, and stars were starting to come out. He let himself in quietly; Judith at least would be asleep by now. He stopped in the kitchen to eat some of the plate Denise sent home with him, licking his fingertips when he was done. Then he headed up toward his attic room.

When he reached the second floor heard a sharp cry coming from down the hallway. His heart jumped in his throat; it didn’t sound like Judith. He made his way cautiously down the hall, hand going to the butt of his gun. There was a moan, a muffled thump, then he heard Michonne groan out clear as day, “Oh god, _Rick.”_

Daryl’s face got hot. _Oh._ He considered continuing up the stairs to his room in the attic, he doubted the two of them could be heard from there. Michonne moaned again, and Daryl turned around and walked back down the stairs and outside into the cool night air.

 _Ok,_ he thought to himself, _so that’s a thing._ He wondered when it had started, neither Rick nor Michonne had said anything yet. Part of him still felt a ghost of jealousy and sadness, but a bigger part of him was consumed by the thought, _it’s about damned time._

He sighed and started walking down the main street of Alexandria, heading toward the gate. Father Gabriel was on guard, peering out into the night beyond the gates. When Daryl reached him he saw the priest’s eyes were troubled.

“What’s wrong?” Daryl asked.

“Sasha and Abe were out on patrol,” Gabriel answered, “They should have been back by now.”

Daryl joined Gabe in studying the inky black night beyond Alexandria’s gates. “They coulda just got sidetracked, or found something interesting.” _Or found the big bad wolf,_ Daryl thought, and shivered.

“Perhaps,” Gabe said. He still looked troubled.

“I’ll wait with you,” Daryl said, “If they don’t come back by morning I’ll head out and look for ‘em.”

This seemed to ease Gabriel a little. He nodded to Daryl and resumed his watch.

Hour after hour passed, and Daryl was starting to get well and truly worried. Just as he was about to head out he heard a shout coming from the distance.

Abe was running toward the gates, head lowered like a charging bull, hollering out, “Open the fuck up! Open up!” His tone of voice was urgent enough that Daryl was dragging the gate open almost before he finished speaking.

“Hell’s happening?” Daryl asked, reaching instinctively for a crossbow that was no longer there. He saw that there was a cut above Abe’s eyebrow and his eye was darkening into a bruise.

“Where’s Rick?” Abe asked, not even bothering to explain himself to Daryl.

“At the house, Abraham—“

Abraham was already running down the street toward the main house without bothering to respond. Daryl swore and fumbled with the gate, swinging it shut and locking it up before chasing after him.

As he ran he saw Maggie and Glenn emerging from their own house, drawn out by the shouting.

“What’s going on?” Glenn exclaimed. He had his gun drawn and he and Maggie were already jogging alongside Daryl after Abraham.

“Hell if I know!” Daryl said. Something bad, he knew that much.

“Rick! _Rick!”_

“Abe _wait—“_ Daryl called out as he chased after him. He may as well have saved his breath, Abraham didn’t so much as slow down. Daryl was a few yards behind him as he charged up the porch steps of the Grimes house and barreled through the front door.

“Damnit Abraham _wait—“_ Daryl cried out. Abraham was mounting the steps, heading for the upstairs bedrooms.

“Rick!” Abe said, reaching the master bedroom door and throwing it open.

Daryl was at his heels and saw in the shadowy room both Rick and Michonne had sprung to their feet, both were naked but still had their weapons drawn and ready.

Abe froze, the sight of the two of them temporarily stunning him. Daryl heard the footsteps of Maggie and Glenn coming behind him, saw that Carl was stumbling from his room with his own weapon already in hand. Daryl caught Rick’s eye and forced himself not to look any lower. Michonne was crossing her arms over her breasts, realizing that whatever the danger was it wasn’t imminent.

“Dad?” Carl said, peering into the room. Daryl threw up an arm and pushed him back, muttering to give them a minute.

Abe jerked back to himself, and practically shouted, “We were jumped, about a mile away from here. This son-of-a-bitch has Sasha, he’s got a gun to her head and wants to talk to Rick.”


	22. Paul: Part XI

Paul knew something was wrong when he arrived at the Kingdom and saw Jacob’s eldest son on duty with alongside a knight he didn’t recognize. The boy—Benjamin, that’s what his name was—looked no older than Rory had been. Paul opened his mouth to ask where the his father was but all it took was one look into the kid’s eyes.

“Greetings, Jesus of Hilltop, we are well met this fine day,” Benjamin said, trying to imitate the King’s eccentric speech patterns.

“Hi,” Jesus said, then turned to the new knight, “I haven’t met you before, have I?”

“Oh no, I’m new. Erm. Carlos Alvaro, I mean, I am Sir Carlos, lately of the Kingdom, and I welcome you to these—“

“Nice to meet you,” Jesus said, struggling to find the energy to smile and failing, “I’m Jesus. I need to talk with the King, is he here, or at the new settlement…?” Paul trailed off when he saw the two knights flinch at the mention of the new settlement. Benjamin in particular looked on the verge of tears.

“Oh,” Alvaro said, shooting a glance at Benjamin, “He’s not here, but his second is. And the new settlement…”

“His second,” Paul said, glancing at Benjamin’s drawn and tired face. As far as Jesus knew about the internal politics of the Kingdom, Ezekiel’s second in command was Benjamin’s father Jacob, followed by a man named Richard, then Jerry, the King’s steward.

Benjamin’s voice only shook a little when he said, “Richard is in the theater. Would you like us to announce you…?”

“I know the way,” Paul said.

“Ok,” Benjamin said, then in a heartbreakingly childish voice asked, “Did…did you bring Lou?” he looked over Paul’s shoulders at his car, “I… _Henry’s_ been hoping to play with her.”

Paul shook his head and in a rough voice said, “Not this time. I need…” he cleared his throat, “I need to talk to Richard.” As he walked past Benjamin he stopped to clasp the boy’s shoulder wordlessly.

******

“We were overwhelmed by the wasted,” Richard said. His eyes were bloodshot and he looked like he’d lost ten pounds since Paul had last seen him. Paul didn’t know Richard very well; he was high up in Ezekiel’s “court” but didn’t encourage familiarity. Except in one instance—he refused to call Paul “Jesus”, the first person on his travels who chose his given name when provided with the option. Paul wasn’t sure if it was for religious reasons or just that Richard tended to be direct. He stilled called Ezekiel, “Your Majesty,” without a trace of irony, however. Paul thought that meant something, thought that meant a lot.

“I’m sorry,” Paul whispered, then, “How many?”

“Over a dozen dead,” Richard replied, “Just as many wounded. Most of them were bit, the ones who survived only did because we were able to cut off a limb.”

Paul unwillingly flashed back to the medical trailer weeks ago and Harlan working frantically over Lou’s bloody body. He shook his head to clear it, then repeated, “I’m sorry. I’m…” he couldn’t think of anything adequate to say.

Richard nodded. He was a man whose face was built for sorrow, even before the end of the world he probably seemed grim. “It was a great loss, a great sacrifice. But it was something worth attempting, the King just moved too soon,” Richard shook himself, “So. What was it you needed to discuss with the King? He won’t be much longer.”

Paul hesitated; processing the information he had been given. A dozen of the Kingdomers were dead, another dozen were maimed and could no longer fight as they had before. Paul wasn’t sure of the exact numbers at the Kingdom. About a hundred, he thought. But almost half of that was people who couldn’t fight—children, the elderly, and the injured. Ezekiel surely had sent the best of his fighters to establish the new settlement. Two dozen of them were dead or missing limbs, which meant the Kingdom fighting forces were nearly halved. He thought quickly, doing the math.

 _It should be enough,_ Paul thought, _some of us can fight, or learn to. Together it should be enough._

“I,” Paul started to say, then cleared his throat, “ _we_ need the Kingdom’s help.” Slowly, haltingly, he told Richard of the Saviors. Of the first day they showed up at the Hilltop, and of what they did. Of what the months after had been like, the steadily rising panic as people worked themselves to the bone so they’d have enough supplies to give and still be able to feed themselves.

Paul came along to the first drop off and was dismayed to realize that none of the group of Saviors that met them were part of the biker gang. There were nearly a dozen of them in this second group, hard-eyed men who Paul didn’t trust in the slightest. That meant there were at least twenty members of this gang, probably more. Their numbers could match Hilltop’s own, and Paul was one of the only fighters they had.

Richard listened to this, his face growing paler and his eyes more haunted with every growing word.

“So that’s why I’m here,” Paul said, “We need help. We can’t do this alone, we don’t have the people or the weapons to make a stand. I’d hoped…I’d hoped to make an alliance with the King.”

Richard didn’t speak for a very long time. When he finally did it was just to say, “You need to talk to the King about this. He should be back shortly.”

******

Less than an hour later Ezekiel received Paul in his “throne room”—the stage in the school’s theater. Shiva was at the side of his throne, when she first saw Paul her ears flicked forward with interest and her tail started twitching. Ezekiel was attended by a retinue of his knights including Richard and his steward, Jerry, who greeted Paul with a warm, “Dude! What’s happening, JC?”

“Jerry,” Ezekiel grumbled, shooting his steward an exasperated look. Paul could never tell just how much of Ezekiel’s “king” shtick was an act or how much he actually believed. Watching the King speak to Jerry always made Paul wonder even more.

Another one of the knights present was Daniel, and he tried to catch Paul’s eye before Paul launched into his story. “I bring grave news, Your Majesty,” Paul said, and repeated what he told Richard.

When Paul finished Ezekiel exchanged a long, hard look with Richard before he turned back to Paul and said, “These Saviors are not unknown to us.”

Paul’s heart plummeted in his chest, “Have…have they been here too?” He studied the faces of the everyone present—Ezekiel, Richard, Jerry, Daniel, and the rest of the knights. Every face told the same story.

“It grieves me to say they have indeed corrupted these sovereign lands with their loathsome presence.” The King began to speak at length, using his typically flowery language. The gist of it was that not long after the disaster of the new settlement the Saviors had shown up. About ten of them, heavily armed. Ezekiel turned them away. They came back, with twenty men this time. Their leader assured the King that they had more men and weaponry.

“We were not at full strength,” Ezekiel said, laying a hand on the top of Shiva’s head. She rubbed her face against it, like an oversized house cat marking her favorite human. The King continued, “We are still not at our full strength.”

“You made a deal with them,” Paul said, heart plummeting even lower.

“We did.”

“Who did they kill?” Paul asked dully.

Ezekiel didn’t answer at first, and the look on his face demonstrated why his community played along with his “King” act, “Not _one_ of us. It was a bone of contention.”

“The King said if they wanted to kill one of us then they had better return with all the men they had,” Richard interrupted. He was staring at Ezekiel with something like worship, “Or make the deal then and there, peacefully.”

“Richard,” the King admonished, “His enthusiasm carries him away. But he has the meat of it, we have an uneasy peace with the Saviors. Such subjugation…weighs deeply upon the head of any man, be he a King or the meanest of folk,” Ezekiel sighed, eyes far away, “However…a King must protect his people first and foremost, else he is no King at all.”

“And you aren’t at full strength now,” Paul replied. His voice was only a little bitter; he couldn’t ask these people to fight on the Hilltop’s behalf, not with the numbers being what they were. _Two dozen of their fighters gone,_ Paul thought, _they said there were twenty Saviors, surely not all of them were part of the group that hit Hilltop even if that’s only half their strength it’s too many. Not without help._

 _“_ No,” Ezekiel said, voice grave, “we are not.”

******

Ezekiel offered what help he could, including any food that could be spared to offset the Saviors’ depredations. Paul thanked him—it wasn’t what he was hoping for, but it was something. And more than Ezekiel was obligated to do. He declined the King’s invitation of dining with him, and retreated to the empty dorm room that had been given to him when he first arrived at the Kingdom. It hadn’t seen much use in the past several months, he spent his last visits in Daniel’s room. His room was untouched despite all that, bed neatly made, a lantern on the table beside it, and a battered Penguin Classics edition of _Gulliver’s Travels_ on the floor. Paul sighed and lit the lantern, picked the book up off the floor, then stretched out on the bed with another sigh. He flipped through the pages of _Gulliver’s Travels_ without really reading them.

Paul hadn’t been at this long when he heard a knock on the door. “Who is it?” Paul called out, although he had a good idea already.

“Daniel,” came the expected reply, “Can I come in?”

Paul closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He was hoping he wouldn’t have to deal with this but he might as well get it over with.

“Yeah, come on in.”

Daniel wasn’t wearing his Kingdom armor when he came into Paul’s room and shut the door behind him. Instead he was in loose track pants and a sleeveless t-shirt. He looked _good,_ which Paul couldn’t help but notice much to his chagrin.

“You didn’t come to see me,” Daniel said reproachfully, “You haven’t been here in months and I find you with your nose in a book.”

Paul squirmed, “I’m sorry, I’ve just got a lot on my mind.” He glanced back at the pages of his book, not really seeing the words, “Plus. Um. I’m just not really in the mood tonight.”

Daniel arched his eyebrows, “We don’t have to do anything, I just wanted to see you.”

“Oh,” Paul said, shifting in bed, considering. He could tell what Daniel was trying to do, and he felt a treacherous heat rising in his belly. He might not mentally be in the mood, but his body was another story. Or maybe mentally he _was_ in the mood, maybe he just wanted to fuck and forget about some things. Or just have a guy to lay next to, be comforted for a few minutes.

He mentally recoiled from that last thought. Truth was he didn’t want “a guy” to hold and comfort him, he wanted Daryl. Paul’s entire life guys just assumed because of his size and youthful appearance he was some innocent who needed protecting. The only time it never came across as patronizing was with Daryl. Maybe because Paul could sense that Daryl would be that way even if Paul was six and a half feet tall and built like a brick shithouse. Maybe because the other man needed holding and comforting himself and Paul loved to be the one to provide it. At any rate he couldn’t imagine doing the same with Daniel so he shook his head and said, “I’m sorry for being a dick. I just. I think I want to be alone.”

Daniel studied him for a second, then came over and sat down at the edge of the bed. Paul hastily closed his book and scrambled up in a sitting position. Daniel raised his hands, placating, “Look, I’ll leave you alone, there’s just something I’ve been meaning to say.”

“Yeah?” Paul said, trying not to stare too hard at the door.

Daniel visibly braced himself and said, “I’ve been thinking. I think you should leave the Hilltop, move here…oh my _god_ don’t look so panicked!”

“I’m sorry, what?” Paul said. He wanted to deny that he looked panicked but didn’t think it was a battle he’d win.

Daniel let out a frustrated noise, “I’d say this even if you were straight as an arrow or we weren’t fucking. I _like_ you, you’re a good person and you’re being wasted over there. These Saviors…” Daniel raked his hand through his closely cropped hair, “They’re bad news. The King doesn’t think we can fight them yet, and he may be right, but they haven’t _killed_ any of us. They’ve never set foot inside here either.”

“So what, I just abandon the Hilltop?” Paul said.

Daniel snorted, “You’re never there anyway from what I understand.”

“So I should come and never be at the Kingdom instead,” Paul said, raising an eyebrow.

“No, you should join the Kingdom and help us build something. We had a setback, with the new settlement, but the King…” Daniel waved his hand in the air, “Ezekiel wants to build us a new world. You could help with that.”

“Listen, Daniel,” Paul said, hunting for the right words, “I admire Ezekiel, I do. And I agree that you’ve built something special here. But the Hilltop is my home, and it’s in trouble. We’re _all_ in trouble.”

“You can still help them, you heard what the King said. Again, if this is because you’re just worried about commitment then I’m not asking you to go steady or anything,” he blew out a breath, “I mean, you could still have this room to stay in. We could find out if we want to just stay like how we are, or just be friends, or something more. But it’s hard to know if you’re never here and neither of us knows when or if you’ll be back.”

“Listen,” Paul said, “I’m sorry, but I meant what I said when we started this.”

“I’m not going into this blind, for fuck’s sake. I know you don’t like staying put and you’re still in love with a dead guy—“

“Go to hell,” Paul said, voice icy even in his own ears.

Daniel paled at the tone, realizing that he’d perhaps gone too far. He gathered himself and pushed on, “I didn’t mean it like…I mean, what would he want for you? Wouldn’t he want you to be happy?”

“You don’t know what he would have wanted, you don’t know the first thing about him,” Paul snapped, “So don’t try and use that shit on me. I can save you some trouble: I don’t _do_ relationships, I told you that before we did anything.”

Daniel looked angry for a split second, then bitter, “No relationships, huh? Sorry, I guess I didn’t realize that included friends as well. Do you even have any?”

Paul pressed his lips together and didn’t answer. The closest he had to a friend was Harlan, and he still maintained his distance. Daniel waited expectantly before he made a frustrated noise. “I’m sorry for bothering you, I’ll leave you to your book.”

Paul watched him go, anger fading only to be replaced by sadness. Daniel was a good guy, in this new world maybe that would be enough. Someone comfortable, safe. He could have that, just get up and follow Daniel back to his room. Let Daniel apologize and apologize himself in turn. Give it a try.

_There’s a block of ice where your heart should be._

Paul closed his eyes. He knew he wasn’t going to go after Daniel, wasn’t going to move to the Kingdom and _try_ to see if they could make each other happy. In the end Daniel just wasn’t _enough_ to take the risks needed to fall in love with someone, or even just make a friend. That was the thing most people he’d talked to didn’t seem to realize, that these risks weren’t _new._ They’d been around long before the end, and you had to be brave or stupid to take them.

 _I can’t do it again,_ Paul thought. It was the simple truth—he couldn’t fucking do it again, even if he wanted to. He knew he wasn’t the only person to have lost everything in this new world and other people had chosen to go on, to try again. But Paul couldn’t, it had been so _hard_ to do it with Daryl, in fact the only reason he’d been able to was that Daryl worked his way in under Paul’s skin without him noticing until it was too late. He didn’t regret it for a second but he just couldn’t fucking do it again.

******

Paul heard the excited barking before the gates to the Hilltop even opened and smiled to himself. Lou came bounding out as soon as they were wide enough for her to squeeze through, jumping up and nearly knocking Paul on his ass. She put her remaining front paw against his chest and licked his face over and over.

“Hey, Tripod,” Paul said with a smile, “Who’s a good dog? Who’s a good pupper? Huh?” She had a daisy chain around her neck in place of a collar, one of the children must have made it.

Lou wiggled in delight and licked him again before dropping back to the ground, dancing awkwardly around him in circles as he entered the Hilltop. She stumbled and fell a few times in her excitement, she was still getting used to her missing leg. She didn’t seem bothered, just a little confused before she bounced up onto her remaining three legs then went back to her excited dancing at his feet. She walked so close to him she nearly caused him to trip. He’d only been gone overnight but she acted like it had been weeks.

He wished he could still take her with him on runs, but it would be downright irresponsible now that she was short a leg. Harlan Carson said she still pined for him while he was away, said she would lay down in front of the gate waiting for him. The kids could draw her away temporarily for play but she always returned to her spot. It made Paul feel like a piece of shit, but it was for her own good.

He was just glad she was alive at all; he hadn’t expected her to survive, and when it looked like she would he hadn’t expected her to recover even half as well as she already had. The first week after she’d been shot was touch and go, Paul barely left the medical trailer as he nursed her back to health. He knew he was being selfish, knew he should be helping with the harvest, going a supply run to replace the medicine they were wasting on her, anything.

Dr. Carson told him he was stupid for feeling that way. “She’s worth her weight in the medicine it takes to treat her,” Harlan said, “Don’t worry about it.” He himself was drawn and pale, the doctor wasn’t the sort of guy to shrug off work. When he wasn’t treating patients—human and otherwise—he was on his knees in the field with everyone else, working on the harvest.

Paul didn’t quite believe him until the day he was able to take Lou out for her first “walk” after her injury. The response was the apocalypse’s version of the Beatles playing the Ed Sullivan show—everyone in the Hilltop was ecstatic, taking a moment from their back breaking labor to line up and coo over her. Some of the kids were in tears. Lou tottered a few yards from the medical trailer, confused by the attention but clearly enjoying it. She stood with her mouth open and tongue lolling out, tail wagging slowly as she greeted her fans.

It was one of the few bright spots of those first months under the Saviors.

 

art by [namlamb](http://namlamb.tumblr.com/)

 

******

There weren’t many bright spots. Every day that passed things at the Hilltop grew tenser. The days leading up to the drop-off were exceptionally tense, no one able to meet anyone else’s eyes as they threw themselves into the final bit of work. Everyone knew if they didn’t fulfill their end of the bargain more of them would be killed.

After Paul went on his first drop-off he became convinced that it was only a matter of time before they just killed someone anyway. The Saviors seemed to be trying to _provoke_ it. His old friend Bud was there, with his sidekick T, who had been the first to bash Rory’s face in.

“Hey there, pretty boy,” Bud said, “A ‘thank you’ would be nice.”

“I’m sorry?” Paul asked, fighting to keep his voice even.

“Heard your doggie’s gonna be alright. Great news, haven’t seen a dog in ages, like I said. So a ‘thank you’ for not killing your dog, or taking him back to Negan.”

“Thank you,” Paul said flatly.

“Wasn’t nothing, gorgeous,” Bud said, “Until next time.”

Paul watched the group of Saviors leave with his fists clenched.

“Assholes,” muttered Bertie, who was in the drop-off party, “Fucking white trash thinking they were better than everybody else even before this shit happened. Now there’s no one to stop them.”

“I know,” Paul said, “Let’s get back, we can’t do anything about it for now.”

Later that night as he was lying in bed with Lou curled up next to him Paul found himself unwillingly thinking of Merle Dixon. If there was ever a bit of white trash who thought he was better than someone else and enjoyed hurting someone powerless…

He stroked Lou’s ears and thought back to his one and only meeting with Merle. It came with feelings of guilt for not telling Daryl before he died. He _wanted_ to, had been _planning_ to, but when Daryl found out Merle’s parole had been denied he was so relieved that Paul didn’t want to upset him all over again. Months passed and he still said nothing, even though he _knew_ the longer he waited the more Daryl would wonder why Paul hadn’t said anything. He eventually resolved to tell Daryl when he got back from Chicago but that had never happened and now it never would. The thought that Daryl died with secrets still between them was just one more thing Paul had to feel guilty over.

************

Paul despised Merle long before meeting him in the flesh. He _felt_ he knew Merle long before that meeting happened. Daryl talked about him a often of course, but Paul felt he learned just as much from things Daryl _didn’t_ say. You couldn’t know and love Daryl Dixon and not see the thumbprints of Merle’s clumsy attempts to shape him.

Paul saw them when Daryl backed out of the Chicago trip. Daryl’s decision hurt Paul’s feelings as much as it made him furious. Daryl could talk about how it was work all the day long but Paul _knew_ it was because of Daryl’s own insecurities and fears. Nearly three years together, living together for most of that time, after _everything,_ and Daryl still thought Paul would run off. That he was that shallow or flighty or cruel. He was normally understanding about Daryl’s insecurities—especially since Paul had a fair share of issues himself—and tried not to take it personally but sometimes it was fucking _hard._ There were times when he wanted to shout in Daryl’s face, _What more can I do to prove I love you? Why do we keep having this argument three fucking years on?_ It was unfair of him but he couldn’t help how he felt sometimes.

“I’ll go with you next time, promise,” Daryl said once they’d made up, and when he said it he looked like he _meant_ it more than he had back when Paul first asked him to come. A lot was left unsaid; but Paul came to realize he tried to push it too soon, that Daryl just wasn’t ready. Three years should have been enough time but Paul of course should have known that damaged people operated on a different time frame when it came to some things.

“Thanks for puttin’ up with me,” Daryl said to him after things blew over. They were in bed and had just finished a very satisfying round of make-up sex, Paul’s face against Daryl’s shoulder while the other man stroked his hair.

Paul was over his anger and hurt feelings for the most part, but that statement briefly brought up their ghosts. He sighed wearily and said, “I don’t ‘put up with’ you. I wish I could make you believe that."

Daryl shifted in bed and gave a sigh of his own, “I know, I’m sorry. I do believe you, it’s like…sometimes I feel like I tricked you. Only way you could be here now.”

“Despite how you like to call me ‘Jesus’ sometimes I’m not a saint or perfect or whatever you think. I’m just a guy who’s as messed up as you are.”

Daryl snorted, “I know you ain’t no saint.”

“If I wrote country and western songs I’d steal that for lyrics. ‘You ain’t no saint.’”

Daryl pinched his sides, they both laughed, and the conversation was shelved.

******

Paul well and truly got over even the ghosts of his anger less than a month later when he woke up on a Saturday to an empty bed and cold sheets. He pushed himself out of bed and called for Daryl, then Lou. No answering call from his boyfriend and his dog didn’t come running. When he came downstairs he saw Lou’s leash was missing from the coatrack by the front door and so were Daryl’s hiking boots. He must have gotten up and decided to walk the dog, a decision that left Paul baffled. During the week Daryl usually went to work earlier than Paul, the weekends were for sleeping in then morning sex.

Still puzzled, Paul started breakfast and went about his morning routine only by himself—reading the paper, doing the crossword, drinking his coffee. Daryl didn’t return for nearly an hour; Paul heard the door open, heard the jingle of Lou’s dog tags then the click of her nails. When she arrived in the kitchen she went straight to her water bowl without greeting him.

Daryl looked guilty when he came in and saw Paul already at the table. “Sorry,” he muttered, “Thought I’d be back before you woke up.”

Paul shrugged, “It’s fine.” Lou finished slurping up some water and came to put her head against Paul’s knee, wet face soaking through his pajama bottoms. _You’re lucky you’re cute,_ Paul thought and patted her head. He turned back to Daryl, “Sit down, there’s still breakfast if you want some. What’s wrong? You were gone for a long time.”

Daryl dropped his eyes, fidgeting with his fingers. He didn’t sit down in his chair, just starting pacing. Paul was about to ask what was wrong again before Daryl blurted out, “I woke up this morning and saw the date on the clock. And I thought to myself, ‘something’s s’posed to happen soon, something important’ and I couldn’t remember what it was. Not our anniversary or your birthday, no trips planned except for you going to Chicago. Then it hit me. Merle’s eligible for parole at the end of the month.”

Paul blinked; he’d forgotten that himself. As far as Paul knew Daryl hadn’t spoken to Merle since that day at the prison when he told his brother that he was moving in with a guy. That day was seared in Paul’s mind. Waiting anxiously in the parking lot, Daryl finally coming out with his head bowed and shoulders hunched, looking like a little kid. When he slid into the passenger’s seat Paul could hear his heavy, panicked breathing and he was trembling a little. Paul didn’t waste time asking if he was alright, just reached across and put his arm around Daryl’s shoulders and said, “Come here.” Daryl leaned over and plunked his head against Paul’s shoulder. They sat in the parking lot like that for a long time, neither one saying anything, Paul pressing his face into Daryl’s hair and rubbing soothing little circles against his arm.

Finally Daryl pulled himself upright, sniffed loudly, and said, “Let’s go home.” By “home” meant Paul’s apartment, and he remembered feeling ridiculously touched to hear Daryl say that. He thought of those cliched sayings about how home is a person and not a place, and for the first time since he was a kid he had a real home again.

All this flashed across Paul’s mind when Daryl said his brother was up for parole soon, and he whispered, “Wow.”

“I know,” Daryl replied, pacing a little more.

“How do you feel about that?” Paul asked quietly.

“How do you _think_ I feel about it?” Daryl snapped, then immediately after, “Sorry, fuck, I don’t know…”

Paul cleared his throat, “How do I think you feel about it? I think you feel scared and confused. You miss him.” _Much as he doesn’t deserve it,_ Paul thought sourly but kept to himself.

“I don’t,” Daryl said quickly.

“He’s your brother,” Paul said, “it’s ok to miss him.” Paul had to admit he was talking out his ass when he said that; he had no siblings and those types of relationships were mysteries to him.

“I just keep thinking ‘bout…” Daryl’s voice choked, “Right before he left for the army. He took me out fishing, gave me my first beer. Told me I was tough, would be ok. We was at the river for hours, him talkin’ to me, showing me how to cast a line, stuff our daddy never did. I was so mad at him for leaving me with Daddy for the longest time, but he came _back_. After everything.”

 _It would have been better for you if he hadn’t_ , was another thing Paul thought but kept to himself. In Paul’s opinion Merle Dixon had done far worse damage to Daryl than their father had.

Daryl had more to say, “Then I think about the last thing he said to me in the jail cell, and how much of an _asshole_ he could be, about them friends of his, the gang. How fucking scared I got sometimes. I still get scared about them sometimes.”

“I know you do,” Paul said.

Daryl was nodding, “And then I think of him looking out for me, when I was little, making sure I had something to eat whenever Daddy took off, showing me how to catch food of my own…and I think that’s stupid, Merle’d never hurt me, then I think of watching the news with him…do you remember that gay kid got killed awhile back? Tied to a post and beat to death by them guys he met in a bar?”

“Matthew Shepard?” Paul asked.

Daryl looked confused and guilty, “I…I think so? I don’t remember…” he trailed off, “Any rate Merle saying those guys shoulda got a medal instead of arrested, that was the only way to deal with queers…”

Paul took in a deep breath and counted to ten, temporarily overwhelmed by feelings of hatred for Merle fucking Dixon. From what Daryl had said Merle _had_ to have known that Daryl was gay when sharing that enlightened opinion on homosexuality. _Had_ to have known how saying it would make his brother feel. When Paul thought he had control of his emotions he said, “Like I said, he’s your brother. It’s ok to miss him, even if he is a piece of shit. Ok to wonder how things could have been if he wasn’t.”

“It ain’t just that, I mean…Merle’s _smart,_ he don’t look like it but he _is._ And tough, I just don’t understand why he…”

“It’s not your responsibility to fix him,” Paul said sharply, kicking himself when Daryl cringed at his tone.

“I know,” Daryl said quietly, not sounding like he believed what he was saying. “I just…if he gets out, I don’t know what worries me more. That he’ll come here to try and kick my ass, or he’ll just never talk to me again. Stupid,” Daryl whispered.

Paul pushed himself up from the table and went to take Daryl in his arms. His boyfriend was stiff at first before melting against him. “You’re not stupid,” Paul said firmly, “you’re just a good man, the best I ever met.”

“You need to meet more guys.”

“Nah, I’m good,” Paul said, kissing Daryl’s cheek.

******

It wasn’t the last conversation they had about Merle, and they all went pretty much the same way. Each time they had that conversation Paul got angrier and angrier. He spent more time at the gym with a punching bag than he had in ages, even skipping lunch so he could go during his break. Each time a punch or kick hit the bag he imagined it was Merle Dixon’s face or balls. Their father may have been the one to beat the shit out of him so bad it left scars but Merle had been the one to destroy Daryl’s belief that anyone could love him.

Paul knew on some level it wasn’t quite that simple but he wasn’t able to hold on to that knowledge. It was overwhelmed by the knowledge that Merle had _hurt_ the person Paul loved more than anyone in the entire world, hurt him so bad he still hadn’t recovered from it. That Merle _still_ had the power to keep hurting Daryl even when he was behind bars and whether he tried being a part of their lives or not.

He’d like to say that the visit to Merle was an impulse but that was bullshit. You couldn’t just stroll in off the street and ask to see someone in prison, it was a _process._ You had to make the request, the inmate in question had to approve, you needed to pass through security, all sorts of hassle. You had to really want it, and hope the inmate you were trying to see wanted it too. He didn’t know if Merle Dixon would realize who Paul was when he saw his name and would be willing to meet him out of plain curiosity or if he’d just ignore it.

To Paul’s surprise it was the former.

******

Soon as he set foot in the prison Paul was hit by dozens of memories of juvie, absolutely none of them welcome. That was the only time he really regretted his decision, he’d need to go home and scrub himself down in the shower then go for a run outside in the fresh air to get the institutional smell out of his skin.

They escorted Paul into a visitor’s booth where he sat down and waited. Merle Dixon came out after about ten minutes, gave him a once over and sat down across from him, slouching in the chair and not touching the phone on his side of the glass. Paul took a few moments to study him. He was older than Daryl by about ten years and it looked like a _rough_ ten years. Paul could still see a bit of Daryl in him; the shape of his mouth, the color of his eyes, the breadth of his shoulders. Finally Paul reached for the phone and put it to his ear. Merle gave a quick grin, ending his resemblance to Daryl and picked up his own phone.

“Who the fuck are you, then?” Merle said.

Paul rolled his eyes, “You know who the fuck I am. Paul Rovia, you signed off on my visitor’s request. I thought we should chat.”

Merle sucked his lip against his teeth, “You got me. I know who you are— my sweet little Darylina’s best lady friend. You’re purtier than I thought you’d be. Still _roommates_?”

“Yeah. Plus we’re still regularly sodomizing each other, which is a bonus.”

Paul was reminded of Daryl again at the expression on Merle’s face. Paul had never seen that death glare aimed at him but he’d seen it aimed at plenty of guys who tried chatting him up in bars over the past few years and didn’t realize that the quiet biker guy across from him was his boyfriend. “Boy, you don’t know how lucky you are this glass is between us. You should march out of here before I decide to try and break it.”

“Heard you’re up for parole, that is if you didn’t fuck it up. How’s that going?” Paul said, ignoring the threat.

“Why you askin’? Gonna invite me over for Sunday morning shopping trips for panty hose?”

“I’m honestly curious about something, Merle. Do you legit think comparing me to a woman is going to piss me off? Or implying that I’m less of a man or whatever because I like dick? Besides, it’s not like you have room to talk, what with you in here getting dicked down on the regular. Guessing you’re the most popular guy on your cell block.” _Bullseye,_ Paul thought to himself when Merle’s face flushed with pure rage. He’d had a _hunch,_ from some of the things Daryl told him, a hunch that grew stronger when Merle came and sat down. Paul was usually pretty good at spotting when a guy was checking him out. He had a Daryl Dixon-shaped blind spot for a while at first but after almost three years together he’d learned Daryl’s tells and he recognized them in Merle.

“I don’t need to know about your jerk off fantasies, you fucking fudge packer, or the disgusting shit you done to my brother,” Merle snarled.

“Oh Merle, your secret is safe with me. I spent a lot of time in juvie, I know guys like you. Loudest homophobes are the quickest to lie back and grab their ankles or follow you around begging to suck your dick.”

Merle’s knuckles were white he was gripping his phone so hard. Paul thought if the glass wasn’t between them they’d already be throwing punches. Part of him wondered what the fuck he was doing, riling Merle up like this. He tried reminding himself that Daryl was _afraid_ of Merle, that if he knew that Paul was here and what he was saying he’d never stop looking over his shoulder for the Savage Sons.

Reminding himself of that backfired, however. Rage spiked through him and he wished probably as hard as Merle did that the glass wasn’t between them, Paul wanted to smash his face in with the phone in his hand. Choke him with the cord. Merle saw, and a look of dark satisfaction passed over his face. Both men leaned forward, close to the glass as they could. “Ooh creampuff, do you want to _wrassle_ with me?” Merle hissed, “You want an ass beating to get your rocks off you don’t need to go through all this, just say the word.”

“Daryl may be scared of you, I’m not,” Paul said.

Whatever reaction he’d been expecting it wasn’t the one he got. Merle turned white and the smug expression slid off his face. He looked off balance, like Paul had slapped him. He also looked a little scared himself. It only lasted for a split second before the Dixon death glare returned, “You lying little cocksucker. I dunno what kinda shit you put in his head, make him run off—“

“Holy shit, do you not _know?_ ” Paul said, genuinely astounded, “Thought you’d be pleased, I think he’s more scared of you than he ever was of your Daddy. Apple didn’t fall far from the tree there in your case.”

For a second Paul thought Merle was going throw the phone down then punch through the glass with his bare fists until it broke. “I _ain’t_ nothing like our daddy, you candy ass little scrotum. Daryl ain’t scared of me.”

“He is _terrified_ of you; he’s had me spend the past three years learning how to shoot a gun and looking over his shoulder because he’s worried you’ll have your inbred white supremacist buddies come beat him or kill him. He’s been a basket case since he realized you could be getting out soon to beat him or kill him personally.”

“Look at you sittin’ there in your fancy clothes with your yankee accent acting like I’m some kinda monster, to hurt my own _kin,_ my _blood._ You see a guy like me and see nothin’, see a guy who won’t listen to your _bullshit—”_

“You know what I see when I look at you?” Paul interrupted, “Trash. Straight up fucking garbage. And it’s really important that you realize I don’t see that because you’re poor, or from Buttfuck, Georgia, or are into redneck shit like hunting and fucking your cousins. Except for that last one I could be describing Daryl and I think he’s pretty great. No, you’re garbage because of the shit you choose to do. To him especially.”

Merle’s lips were in a tight white line, “So why are you here then, if I’m the bogeyman?”

“I’m here because—even though you’re trash and don’t deserve him—Daryl for some reason still loves you. Which makes you also _my_ fucking cross to bear. In my ideal world you’d fuck off somewhere and never come back, but I think he misses you. If you could choose to stop being a dick for thirty minutes then he wouldn’t mind hearing from you, so feel free to give him a call and let him know you’re not going to kick his ass. But if you show up and hurt him in any way or try dragging him down to your level I’m going to kill you.”

Merle stared at him in disbelief before he chuckled, “Oh sweetheart, I would love to see you try.”

“Please, a child could get rid of your dumb ass. Cut the brake line on your bike. Or set the shack you live in on fire one night when you’re all pilled up. Or just walk in blow your head off instead, cops would find you and think one of your tweaker besties went nuts. Nothing of value would be lost and no one would miss you except for Daryl. He’s used to that by now.”

Merle laughed again and it was ugly, “Oh honey bunch, you are _feisty._ Hissin’ and spittin’ just like a kitten. You know what I think? Think you the one that’s afraid. Daryl knows I’d never hurt him, I think you’re afraid once I get out he’ll find his balls again and quit buyin’ you houses and whatever else you got him doing.”

“Whatever helps you live with yourself,” Paul said, “Saddest thing about you isn’t that you’re trash, it’s that you don’t have to be. You could just, y’know, _stop._ Like I said, he still loves you for some fucking reason and would be happy to see you if you could act like a human being. But guys like you never do. Goodbye, it wasn’t nice meeting you.”

Paul hung up and signaled for the guard. His hands were shaking and he could feel Merle Dixon’s eyes on him as he walked away.

**********

Paul sat outside on his trailer steps, maps of Northern Virginia spread out in front of him, chewing absentmindedly on his pencil eraser, mentally plotting out his route. Lou was rolling around on her back with all three paws in the air, snorting and blowing. He glanced over to her and grinned, there were few things in life as funny as an upside dog with her lips flapping wide open. It gave her the appearance of a demented smile and her tongue lolled out, making her look even goofier.

“You silly girl,” Paul said. She gave him a look and started wriggling around in the grass again. He chuckled and went back to his maps, tracing different routes with his finger, trying to figure out where would be easiest to get to. He’d picked through most of the area surrounding northern D.C, but hadn’t hit the southern areas. Another option would be to try again to find a place to cross the Potomac and head into Maryland. But the last time he’d tried _that_ he’d found the bridges blocked by piles of cars, some empty, some with the dead trapped inside. He’d been just about able to pick his way across on foot but forget about a car or anything big enough to haul back potential supplies. No, south of DC would be less of a hassle to reach, even if he had to pass through some country swarming with the dead.

A shadow fell over him, when he looked up Gregory was standing there, staring at Lou with his mouth puckered up in disapproval. He was one of the few people at Hilltop who hadn’t warmed up to Paul’s dog. Probably had something to do with her frequently tossing one of her drool-coated tennis balls in his lap and ruining the fancy suits he still insisted on wearing.

“Jesus,” Gregory said, then without any pleasantries asked, “When are you going out again?”

Paul studied him; he’d lost some weight in the months since the Saviors took over. In addition his balding head was red and glistening. _Sweaty as a preacher in a whorehouse,_ as Daryl would have said.

“Soon,” Paul answered, making a note on his map. 

Gregory pulled out an old-fashioned handkerchief from one pocket and mopped off his forehead, “Listen, Jesus…I’m doing what I can to deal with the heat from these Saviors. But they want more.”

“I know,” Paul said tightly.

“We are going to be dealing with some _major_ shortages soon if we can’t find anything.”

 _If_ you _can’t find anything,_ was what Gregory meant. Paul sighed. Ezekiel had been good to his word, providing what food he could _when_ he could. In addition to fruit and vegetables he even generously donated some chickens so Hilltop had a fresh supply of eggs. But it wasn’t _enough_ , not for all the people they had living there, not when half of it was being given away.

 _Stolen,_ he reminded himself, _not given._

 _“_ I’ve been looking as hard as I can,” Paul pointed out, “I’ve been trying to stay closer to the Hilltop.”

“Because of your doggie?” Gregory said, tone of voice mocking, “Damnit Jesus, we’ve got a knife to our throats!”

Paul held his temper; Gregory had his strengths at a leader but he was a coward at the end of the day, and fear made people do and say stupid shit. Besides, it wasn’t entirely untrue. He only went out for a few days at a time before he checked in at the Hilltop, let Lou see that he was alright. It wasn’t the only reason, however, or even the most important one. As he explained to Gregory, “Because I want to be close enough so that if something goes wrong I can help. At any rate, I’m going much farther this time, going to search a few more places.”

“Yeah?” Gregory said, looking hopeful.

Paul nodded, going back to his map, “Look. Reston, Wolf Trap, Alexandria…” he traced the locations out on the map, “Some of the people here and at the Kingdom said these areas were evacuated early on, they might not be picked through.”

“Well, ‘hallelujah’ sings the choir,” Gregory replied. A “thank you” would have suited Paul, but he didn’t expect it from Gregory.

“I’ll be gone for a week or two,” Paul said.

“A _week?_ ” Gregory complained, and Paul fought to keep from rolling his eyes, “That’s, with the current situation—“

“Or two,” Paul corrected, “I know what the current situation is. If I want to _thoroughly_ scavenge that area then I’m going to need that long. At least. You wanted me to find something? Well, this is what it takes.”

Even if it made Gregory whine Paul was certain of what his course would be. He’d been wanting to scavenge those areas since the early spring; a plan the got derailed when a gang of thugs invaded his home and shot his dog. He was delayed again by a summer slaving away with everyone else to be sure to have enough food for both the Saviors and themselves for the winter. Now as the first hints of fall were in the air he knew he _needed_ to go soon, winter was only a few months away and he could forget about a long scavenging run then. It had to be _now._

 _And if I’m lucky maybe I’ll find another settlement,_ Paul thought. He kept it to himself; Gregory _still_ had his nose out of joint because “that kook Ezekiel” hadn’t come through and provided the fighters they’d been hoping for. But there _had_ to be other settlements, _had_ to be people who would be willing to take on the Saviors. If he could bring Ezekiel some backup maybe he’d be willing to throw his forces in with the Hilltop.

 _Wish into one hand,_ _piss_ _into the other, see what fills up first._ That was another one of Daryl’s sayings. Another settlement was a lot to wish for, he ought to temper his expectations.

******

He found the settlement a week into his mission, and by pure luck at that. If he’d taken a different route he might have missed it entirely. He _would_ have gone a different route if he hadn’t seen a sign advertising a livestock feed store. He looked at his map and mentally calculated how much longer before he ran out of gas. He thought he would _just_ make it, but getting back would be a problem. He’d have to scavenge for more gas or go on foot from there. He wasn’t sure if it was worth the risk; their own livestock subsisted quite well on grass alone. But grain was grain; some of it could be the sort fit for people. The real deciding factor, however, was the hope that the place had some dog food. Lou was happy to eat table scraps but Paul wanted to have some dried kibble  on hand for her.

It turned out to be a waste of his time and gas. The place was wrecked, windows smashed in, and the sacks of animal feed burst open and growing mold. He walked outside, kicking the ground in frustration. He’d found _dick_ on this trip so far; was in the middle of nowhere, and was so low on gas he would probably run out in a few miles. He stared out at the countryside, unsure of which direction to head next. He chose east on a whim, and predictably ran out of gas after about twenty minutes of driving. He sighed, grabbed his pack and his empty gasoline canister then started walking. He was soaked in sweat before he’d gone even a mile—he was wearing his standard scavenging outfit which consisted of a heavy leather trench coat over several layers. He also wore a bandana around his neck where he could easily pull it over his face if he was in an area where he was overwhelmed by the scent of rot. Despite how hot it made him Paul didn’t consider removing it, the coat was as good as chainmail when it came to the teeth of the dead.

It was late in the day before he found some traces of civilization—rows of cars blocking the road. He moved through them, searching. The first car he tried was empty of gasoline, so was the second. And third. Hours passed and he kept going car by car, striking out each time.

_Look at everything._

Paul stopped, remembering Daryl’s long ago advice. Stalled cars clogging the roads weren’t unusual these days, neither was finding many of them empty. Towards the end people just started driving until they ran out of gas. But _all_ of them? Every single one? Paul hadn’t looked at every single one, but law of averages said that he should have gotten at least _some_ gas in these tanks.

Unless they’d already been scavenged. There could be some people around here. Enough that they’d been able to pick an entire road’s worth of cars mostly clean.

 _Wish into one hand_ , Paul thought. But he wasn’t _wishing,_ he was looking at the evidence in front of him. He glanced back the way he came, where he’d abandoned his car. He could still walk back before nightfall and start searching in another direction. Or he could keep going.

It was an easy choice to make.

******

He passed more cars blocking the roads, all of which had been picked clean but no other signs of a camp or settlement. He kept walking. By the time twilight came he wasstarting to think he’d made a serious miscalculation. Which was when he saw lights burning in the distance.

Hardly daring to believe it he pulled his binoculars from his pack and brought them to his eyes. When he first peered through them his view was blocked by houses and trees, all he could see was glints of light. He put his binoculars away and kept walking. He found more traces of civilization, blocks of houses, many damaged, some burned down, but no sign they’d been inhabited recently. He stopped again at the base of a large tree and started climbing up.

From that vantage point through is binoculars he could see the settlement clearly. It was _huge,_ at least physically. Bigger than the Kingdom even. There were several enormous houses, _nice_ ones, houses that in the old world would have cost close to seven figures. The houses were all surrounded by a wall that was fifteen or twenty feet high, taller than the Hilltop’s. He adjusted his binoculars, looking into the houses that were lit up. Some looked to be illuminated by lanterns or candles but others had a steady glow that could only come from electricity.

 _Holy shit,_ Paul thought. They had a few generators at the Hilltop but that was for important things like the medical trailer. The Kingdom had a few solar panels that they used similarly. To just have lights on at night burning for no special reason seemed like an almost obscene luxury. It wasn’t the only luxury he noticed—the houses had rolling, manicured lawns but Paul only saw one with crops planted in front. All that growing space going to waste…

Paul’s mind was already making calculations, trying to guess how many people lived in this settlement. Not all but most of the houses had at least one light burning in them; they were big rambling houses, some looked like they had more than five bedrooms. People slept six to a room in bunkbeds at Barrington house, with the exception of Gregory’s living space. The trailers housed even more people, most packed with whole families. Paul’s trailer was split into two, he had an entire living space to himself, space for a bed and a couch and a kitchen table. He always felt a little guilty for taking up all that space, hardly anyone else did. If this place was full to capacity it could be bigger than the Kingdom in terms of population as well as physical size.

 _Stop wishing into your hand_ , he told himself. He sighed; if this place had all those big empty lawns just sitting there it was entirely possible that there was only one person to a room, one family to an entire house. Could be fewer than fifty people. Still, it was sizable, and must be a place of embarrassing riches. He scanned the wall and made note of the guards, they had assault rifles slung over their shoulders and nothing else—no bows or spears. Which meant they had _ammo_ for those weapons, enough that they didn’t worry about running out if they had to put up a defense.

Paul lowered his binoculars. He thought he could climb the wall and get inside without the guards noticing, have a look around. That thought came with the memory of Shiva’s claws raking across his skin, he could almost feel the phantom pain in his calf. There were probably no tigers but there were definitely people who were heavily armed. Maybe he wouldn’t break in.

_So just what, knock on the door?_

Well. Maybe he would wait until morning, do it in the light of day. Less chance a guard with a twitchy trigger finger would shoot him. He sat thinking for a few minutes longer before he jumped down from his perch in the tree. He started picking his way back in the direction he’d come, he could shelter in one of the cars for the night. Rest a bit and come back in the morning with his wits about him, walk straight up to the gates and asked to be let in.

******

The last bits of light hadn’t quite faded when Paul returned to the rows of cars and began searching for a good one to spend the night. He was only at it for a few minutes before he heard voices.

Paul stiffened. There were two figures moving through the rows of cars, chatting casually to each other. He heard a man’s voice that was answered by a woman’s laughter. He crouched down behind the nearest car and peered cautiously through the window.

In the dim light he saw that there were only the two people he’d heard—a man and a woman walking side by side. He was a big, beefy white guy with with an epic mustache and ginger hair. She was a pretty black woman with a long, elegant neck and she was slender in a way that made Paul think of a ballerina. A murder ballerina, if the way she held her weapon was any indication. They were armed with assault rifles and Paul thought it was a good bet they’d come from the settlement. 

He drummed his fingers against his leg, wondering what he should do. He could hide and let them pass or he could just…introduce himself. Problem with the latter was the same problem with going up to the gates and knocking. He really didn’t want to get shot by people antsy about it being dark. But these two were out _looking_ , maybe they wouldn’t be as twitchy. And it would be nice, to maybe spend the night in one of those palatial houses instead of car that smelled of death. While Paul was trying to decide Beefcake said something to the Murder Ballerina and she threw her head back and laughed, eyes sparkling when she looked at him. _They seem friendly enough,_ Paul thought. There was an easy camaraderie between them, he thought he could talk to them.

Paul took a deep breath and stepped out from behind the car, “Hi,” he said, raising his hands.

He realized his error immediately. Murder Ballerina aimed her rifle at him then shouted, “Who the fuck are you?”

“Whoah now,” Paul said, keeping his hands up, “I come in peace. I just want to talk.”

“Where’s the rest of your group?” Beefcake demanded.

“I don’t have one,” Paul said, “Well, not one here. I’m by myself, like I said. I just want to talk. Without a gun in my face, preferably.”

“People in hell want slurpees,” Beefcake growled. He had his own gun aimed at Paul’s face, “What are you doing out here?”

“Looking for a place to sleep,” he said, “Are you from the settlement a few miles back?”

“Were you spying on us?” Murder Ballerina barked.

“Just looking for a place to rest. Look, I’d like to—“

“Sasha, keep your gun on him,” Beefcake interrupted.

“Listen, I just—“ Paul started to say, taking a step toward Murder Ballerina—Sasha, that’s what Beefcake had called her.

“ _Back up, asshole!”_ Beefcake shouted, lunging forward and shoving Paul back.

“Whoah,” Paul said, “Ok, sorry—“

“Hands up!” Beefcake said, grabbing Paul roughly by the coat, patting him down. “You armed? What’s in that pack?”

In retrospect, Paul supposed he overreacted. But Beefcake unknowingly struck a nerve and Paul responded instinctually.

When the other man reached him Paul shifted his weight and drove his knee up into Beefcake’s stomach. The big guy obviously wasn’t prepared for the force or suddenness of the blow, he bent forward slightly and his breath came out in a whoosh. As he stumbled forward Paul hit him twice with his fist in rapid succession _._ To an onlooker they would look unimpressive, just quick jabs, but Paul knew how and where to hit _._ His punches were efficient, driven from his shoulder, the first one hit beefcake in the chin and snapped his head back enough for Paul to hit him in the throat with the second. That one enough to make Beefcake drop to his knees. Before he hit the ground Paul had already drawn one of his knives form its sheath, then he lunged forward and grabbed Beefcake by his ginger hair and held the blade to his throat. Paul was fast, he was able to do all this in the time it took Sasha to run around the car and raise her gun. When she saw that Paul had a knife to her friend’s throat she froze.

“Look,” Paul gasped, “I just want to talk! Can we please calm—

“Asshole!” Beefcake snarled then jerked his head back so hard and fast Paul was left holding a chunk of ginger hair for a fraction of a second before he was whacked in the face by the back of Beefcake’s skull. The force of the blow sent him staggering back and his knife flew out of his hand.

“Get out of the way!” Sasha cried out. Beefcake was rolling clear before she finished speaking.

“ _Shit,”_ Paul gasped. He regained his balance just in time to dive out of the way. Bullets whizzed over his head as he rolled behind the nearest car. Glass shattered and there was the thunk of bullets striking metal. Paul glanced over, saw that the car next to him was an SUV on tires high enough to provide a gap from the undercarriage to the road that he thought he could fit under. Without hesitation he stripped out of his pack and started crawling beneath the SUV, thankful for his size. He could still barely fit and he had a brief moment of claustrophobia when a button on his shirt got caught on something and held him in place.

The shooting stopped and Paul heard Beefcake call out, “Had enough, dick trumpet?”

Paul didn’t acknowledge him, he was too busy slithering out the other side of the SUV, trying to put more cars in between him and his new friends.

“You’re a quick little fucker but I’m guessing you ain’t bulletproof,” Beefcake shouted again. He let out a hoarse cough, Paul’s punch must have done a number on him.

Paul peered around the bumper of the SUV. He saw that Beefcake and Sasha were circling around the car he had first dived behind, guns raised.

Paul retreated behind the SUV and crept quietly to the car behind it. He could hear Beefcake on the other side, “Motherdick, where did he go?”

Before Sasha could answer he heard a distant thunk, a shout, and the sound of a gun going off. _Walker in one of the cars,_ he thought. He glanced quickly through the car window, saw Beefcake had spun around in Sasha’s direction and his gun was raised.

Paul was already moving, hoisting himself to the roof of the car and rolling across. Beefcake was at eye level with Paul’s boot. He kicked him in the face, _hard._ Beefcake lost his grip on the gun as he staggered back.

Sasha was lunging toward them as Paul dropped down from the roof the car to the ground. He lashed his leg, sweeping Sasha’s legs out from underneath her. Like Beefcake she hadn’t been prepared and was thrown off her feet. She fell, and on the way down her head hit the car with a loud thunk.

Paul felt sick but didn’t have time to worry that he’d killed her, Beefcake was regrouping. He jerked her sidearm free from its holster just as Beefcake was raising his own weapon. Paul squeezed off three shots at the big guy’s feet. It halted him, but wasn’t enough, so Paul pointed the gun at Sasha’s head.

That _did_ stop him, stopped him dead in his tracks.

“Listen,” Paul panted, “ _please._ Don’t shoot me! I don’t want to hurt her, but if you shoot at me my finger might slip, my gun might go off…you understand me?”

“I am going to pound you into ground so hard you’ll be coughing up your own nut sack.”

“Can you do that after we talk, please?”

Beefcake went still, breathing hard and flickering his gaze from Paul to Sasha’s still form. Her eyes were fluttering and she let out a soft groan. Beefcake’s relief was obvious and Paul shared it; he _hadn’t_ wanted to kill her, hadn’t even wanted to hurt her. Hadn’t wanted to hurt either of them. It wasn’t the best way to make friends and influence people, and it had all happened so fast he wasn’t really sure how it had ended up this way.

_You fucked the pooch on this one, beyond all repair. Best to take off before Beefcake makes good on his threat._

Thing was he couldn’t _do_ that. He couldn’t just walk away from a large, well-defended and well-armed settlement. 

“Ok,” Paul said, “here’s what we do. First you hand me your gun. Then we head back toward your settlement. All three of us, together. You bring me your leader, outside on neutral ground. Deal?”

“Deal,” Sasha said from the ground, her voice sounded thick and heavy.

******

It took hours to walk back the few miles to the settlement. Sasha had been whacked pretty good, she had to walk slowly, and kept needing to stop for a rest. Beefcake walked stiffly ahead by several yards at Paul’s insistence. He kept stopping to look back, and each time he did he saw that Paul still had his gun on Sasha. It was nerve wracking as all hell, this slow march. Gave Paul a lot of time to think of all the ways this could go wrong. 

It was nearly dawn by the time they reached burned houses on the outskirts.

“This is as far as I go,” Paul said, “I’m going to wait in that house with Sasha, and you bring me whoever is in charge here. I talk, if they don’t like what I have to say I leave, no harm no foul.”

“That’s a pile of monkey turds,” Beefcake growled, “She needs a doctor to look at her, needs—“

“I’m _fine,_ ” Sasha said, “Just…go get Rick.”

He thought Beefcake would protest more but instead just took a long, lingering look at Sasha. Then he did an about face and raced toward the settlement. Paul turned to look at Sasha, she glared at him. “Ladies first,” Paul said, gesturing toward the house with his gun.


	23. Daryl & Paul: Part I

“He’s got her in one of the houses outside the wall,” Abe growled, “Little bastard got the drop on us, said he wanted to talk to the guy in charge.”

“He say why?” Maggie asked. Her face was pale and shiny, Daryl wondered if she’d had more morning sickness.

“We didn’t get much chance to _chat,_ ” Abe grunted.

“Think he was with them assholes we met on the road?” Daryl asked, checking the rounds in his gun. Rick and Michonne emerged from the bedroom disheveled but dressed, both their expressions all business. Or at least Michonne’s was until she saw Carl, then she had a split second where she dropped her eyes and looked flustered. She recovered quickly but still couldn’t meet the kid’s eyes.

“Could be,” Abe answered.

“Or maybe one of those wolves,” Carl said.

“I didn’t see a mark on his head, but he was wearing a hat and a bandana, couldn’t see his face. Could have covered it up,” Abe replied.

“You only saw one of them?” Rick said, buckling on his gun belt. Abe nodded, “Ok, Carl, I want you at the gates. Get everyone on alert, we don’t know if we’re going to be attacked or not. I go and talk to this guy. Find out what he wants, distract him. Daryl, take Glenn with you and circle around, see if you can get a drop on him.”

“What about me?” Maggie said.

“Babe,” Glenn whispered. She shot him a death glare, looked like she was about to shout something at him when Rick stepped in.

“I want you with Carl. Be ready if something goes wrong.”

She didn’t look happy but she didn’t protest.

Daryl exchanged a look with Rick, “Should we take him out? If we get the chance?”

“If he’s armed we should try talking to him first,” Glenn added, “No point shooting first and maybe getting Sasha killed.”

“I told you, the little bastard is _fast,_ we don’t do anything until we get Sasha away from him.” Abe interjected.

“Besides, we need to know where he comes from, if he has anyone else with him,” Michonne said.

“She’s right,” Rick said, “we want him alive. Only kill him if you think there’s no other way to get him away from Sasha.”

Daryl swallowed his impulse with anger. Ever since that fucker Dwight in the burnt out woods he hadn’t trusted the idea of looking for new people. Now a new person had found them and already attacked Sasha. He remembered the conversation he’d had with Rick earlier that day, “Law of averages, huh?” he said sourly.

************

There was a kitchen table and chairs in the burned out house. When they walked inside Paul pulled a chair out and gestured for Sasha to sit down. She gave him a disbelieving look before she did. Paul kept his gun steadily on her the whole time. _If looks could kill I would already be a walker,_ Paul thought. He was sweating like crazy, it was finally hitting him. Fuck, he might very well get shot if this Rick fellow was as aggressive as his friends.

“How’s your head?” Paul asked. He didn’t think he’d hit her hard enough to give her a concussion or seriously damage her, probably worst that would happen was a hell of a bump developing.

“Go to hell,” Sasha muttered, pressing her fingers agains her temples.

“I _am_ sorry about this,” Paul said. She didn’t reply, just gave him another disbelieving look. “This really isn’t how I planned on doing this,” he continued, “I didn’t want to _hurt_ anyone, your boyfriend was the one who got aggressive with _me,_ I was just—“

“He’s not my—“ Sasha blurted out before snapping her mouth closed and narrowing her eyes, as though Paul had tricked her deliberately.

“Not your boyfriend? Does _he_ know that?” Paul asked, raising his eyebrows. Sasha just rubbed her temples again and gave him more stony silence. Paul didn’t know why he kept talking, the ins and outs of straight relationships were a mystery to him, but sometimes he just couldn’t keep his mouth shut. “You know, _my_ boyfriend used to glare like that at guys he thought were messing with me or hitting on me or both. He even did it _before_ he was my boyfriend. That should have been my first clue he liked me in a gay way, but I didn’t see it for the longest time.”

“I’m not going to sit here and gossip about boys. You should let me go, and run while you still have a chance. This isn’t going to go well for you.”

“Believe me, this isn’t how I wanted things to go. But I don’t have a lot of choice,” he hesitated and said, “The place I come from, it’s not doing so well these days. We need supplies, and I’d like to negotiate with whoever is in charge to see if we can come to an arrangement. We can have things at my settlement we can trade, that’s _all_ I want to talk about. Then I want to go home and play with my dog.”

Sasha looked sympathetic—or at least not actively murderous— for a split second then pointedly looked away. Paul sighed. So much for conversation. He hoped like hell whoever was in charge of this place had a cool head, or he was going to be in a lot of trouble. For the millionth time he mentally cursed the asshole who shot Lou and made her into a tripod that couldn’t go on runs with him. Paul thought she’d be able to coax a smile out of even Sasha.

He didn’t have much time to think about that, because that was when he heard a shout coming from outside. “ _Hey asshole! Got the man in charge! Where’s Sasha?”_ Beefcake, who was definitely not Miss Sasha’s boyfriend, had returned.

Paul met Sasha’s eyes. He glanced out toward the door, then toward the back of the house. No doubt Beefcake had brought reinforcements beyond just whoever was in charge, probably had people out back to prevent his escape. It was too late to back out of this now, and even if it wasn’t the Hilltop _needed_ supplies. He gave Sasha a smile she couldn’t see with his scarf still covering his face and said, “After you.”

************

Daryl heard Abraham shout as he and Glenn circled around to the back of the house. Half of it was gone, a burned out husk. They moved slowly through the weeds, and Daryl pushed himself up to take a look inside. The house was dark and shadowy, much like the surrounding forest. The sky was slowly changing into a lighter shade of grey and in the distance he could hear the chirping of birds.

He caught Glenn’s eye, and gestured for him to come in close, “I’m going to go inside, see if I can get a drop on this asshole. Keep an eye on things back here.”

“ _Quietly,”_ Glenn hissed back, “And remember what Rick said, we want this guy alive.”

Daryl gave a reluctant nod and hoisted himself over the remains of the house’s far wall with Glenn’s help. He dropped down inside, landing lightly on his feet. Glenn's warning was unnecessary; Daryl could be quiet.  He’d spent enough time in the woods tracking game to know how to move, how to slide his feet so he didn’t make noise cracking twigs or crunching on leaves. Moving through a burned out house wasn’t much different, studying the boards on the floor and spotting the ones that were more solid, less likely to creak. Avoiding stepping on junk that might make a noise. It took time but he didn’t make a sound.

He could here voices coming from the front of the house, and moved forward. He walked lightly, knees bent and rolling his feet whenever he stepped forward. He stepped into what had once been the living room of the house, saw the front door was wide open. Outlined in the weak pre-dawn light pouring through open door the piece of shit that dragged them out here. His back was to Daryl and he was in a knee-length trench coat so his build was hard to make out. At any rate he was a small guy, just beyond his shoulders Daryl could see the top of Sasha’s head, she was taller than he was. He raised his gun and took aim, only to lower it in frustration. He was pretty sure he could hit the guy dead center in the chest, but with the hand cannon he was currently sporting the bullets could easily pass through a body and hit Sasha with enough force to kill her. He cursed that asshole Dwight for stealing his bow, he could have put a bolt in _this_ asshole’s heart without having to worry about getting Sasha.

At any rate, Rick said he wanted this guy alive to be questioned so Daryl supposed it was for the best. He lowered his gun but did not return it to its holster, instead he glided noiselessly across the floor of the living room. This last stretch was the riskiest, the most chance he’d make a noise and alert the guy to his presence and possibly make him shoot Sasha. Thankfully he could hear Rick speaking, his friend was using his “This is not a democracy” voice, telling this asshole to let Sasha go and maybe they’d let him live. Daryl held his breath and crept forward the last few feet.

************

Paul exited the house behind Sasha, keeping her between him and the definitely hostile group waiting to meet him. He walked just outside the door, the house to his back. No one could creep inside without alerting him, the place was too old and creaky. He walked Sasha up to the edge of the porch, right up to the shattered wooden steps and studied the group assembled on what was once the house’s front lawn to meet him.

Just three people, Beefcake flanked on both sides by a man and a woman. Paul studied them carefully, even with Beefcake between them they moved in sync. She was probably the most striking woman Paul had ever seen—with a sculpted body, velvety dark skin, and dreadlocks down past her shoulders. She also had a goddamned samurai sword of all things strapped to her back. He was a slim guy who was handsome in a rugged way with piercing blue eyes and a greying beard. He walked with a bow-legged swagger that made Paul think of a sheriff in an old Western riding into town to lay down the law. The Sheriff might not look like much in comparison to Beefcake, in fact he was _dwarfed_ in comparison, but Paul could tell he was a lot more dangerous. The Samurai too.

“Hi. I’m Rick,” the Sheriff said.

“Hi,” Paul said, “I kinda had a feeling you were. You’re the guy in charge, right?”

“I am. And you have about a minute to get your gun off of Sasha.”

“Um. Do you promise not to fill me with holes as soon as I do?”

“Yes,” Rick said flatly.

“Listen, Rick—can I call you Rick? Surely you can understand why I might not trust you on that one.”

“You don’t let Sasha go you’ll get a lot worse than a few holes,” Beefcake growled. The Samurai shot him a look which quieted him.

“Look, we got off to a bad start,” Paul said to Rick, “But what I’m offering you will make up for that.”

“Why should I trust you, you attacked my people—“

“I said ‘hi’ to your people, and Beefcake over here went after _me_ ,” Paul replied, “Look, part of it was my fault, I don’t like guns in my face. Everything just spiraled out of control. I get it, you can’t be too careful these days. So you should understand why I’m reluctant to let Sasha go? I just want to talk. About a mutually beneficial partnership—“

“‘Mutually beneficial partnership’?” Rick interrupted, “Nah, that’s not how it’s gonna go.” He stepped forward, withdrawing his gun from his holster and making him look like even more like a character from a Western. When he spoke next his voice was hard and commanding, “You do not get to show up here, attack my people, and start talking about ‘beneficial partnerships.’ How it’s gonna go is you let Sasha go before you do anything else, hand over your weapons, and surrender peacefully. We might let you live. But there’s not going to be any talking until you do.”

Paul’s pulse pounded. Sheriff Rick’s voice had a weight of conviction to it and Paul did not feel like testing him. This was going to get very ugly, and fast. He weighed his options—he could surrender like Sheriff Rick said and keep his fingers crossed that he wouldn’t be shot instantly. If he didn't want to risk that then he didn’t think they’d fire if he had Sasha as a human shield, maybe he could wing her and dive back into the house. Go out the back and make a run for the woods. Sheriff Rick surely had sent someone behind the house in preparation for that eventuality, but Paul thought he could slip past whoever it was, or fight his way out. Better chance than a fire fight with these people—

Seconds before he heard the distinct click of a revolver’s hammer being drawn back he felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. Someone was behind him, someone had slipped into the house and snuck up behind him quieter than a damn ghost, he was _fucked—_

Then a voice growled out, “Put the gun down, asshole.”

It was like being shot.

There was a split second of pure shock where his mind tried to catch up with his ears. When it did Paul went completely rigid and he could feel the blood draining from his face. Because he knew that voice. The last time he heard it was over a phone line, the connection bad and fading in and out. _Just get here. This shit is bad. Hey Paul? I love you._

 _“_ Right now!” The voice was rougher thanit had been the last time Paul heard it; like its owner had been dragged through hell this past year and a half. There was still no mistaking it.

The gun fell from Paul’s nerveless fingers. Sasha bent forward to pick it up, stumbling a little with her hand pressed to her head. She jumped down the stairs and spun around, Beefcake was racing to her side and she waved him off. The Samurai’s sword was out of its sheath and she was glaring into the woods watchfully as Sheriff Rick marched toward Paul with his gun raised.

All of this could have been happening on another planet, Paul felt distant and dreamlike. Sheriff Rick was talking, Paul could see his lips move, saw his eyes flick over Paul’s shoulder. Paul heard him say, “Daryl,get him over here.”

The voice behind him growled, “Hands _up,”_ Paul raised his hands mechanically, _“_ Now walk.” Paul moved forward, stumbling down the steps. It was like he was sleep walking, his body on autopilot. Paul heard the wooden steps creak behind him this time, he wasn’t trying to be careful. Heard him land on the grass. Saw the gun first, out of the corner of his eye, less than a foot from his face. Saw the hand holding it then the arm attached then the entire figure of the man himself as he circled in front of Paul.

Daryl fucking Dixon was standing in front of him holding a gun in his face.

Paul was dimly aware that his hands were shaking. He felt light-headed and all the strength was running out of his legs, it was all he could do to stay standing. He mentally noted that he might fucking faint, just keel over with shock. Some small, rational part of his brain that was distant and far away was wondering whether he had _actually_ been shot and this was a dying dream. But no, if it were a dream wouldn’t Daryl look the same as he had the last time Paul saw him? This Daryl wasn’t the Daryl who sat next to him on a summer evening and laid a hand on his knee while they watched the fireflies come out. This Daryl had hair that was longer than Paul ever saw it, this Daryl’s beard was shot with grey that was almost white in patches, this Daryl was in a sleeveless vest and looked like he’d put on about twenty pounds of muscle, most of it in his arms.

He was still Daryl.

Still Daryl, and with that Dixon death glare on his face that Paul never had aimed at him but had seen aimed at others.

“Keep them hands _up, a—“_ Daryl’s voice abruptly cut off and he went rigid, eyes going wide.

************

“How it’s gonna go is you let Sasha go before you do anything else, hand over your weapons, and surrender peacefully. We might let you live. But there’s not going to be any talking until you do,” Daryl heard Rick’s voice calling out as he moved the last few feet to the doorway. When he was arm’s length away from the asshole he raised his gun and pulled back the hammer. Daryl saw the other man stiffen at the sound.

“Put the gun down, asshole,” Daryl growled out.

The guy went so rigid he gave a full-body jerk. He didn’t lower the gun, didn’t move at all. Just stood a few feet outside the doorway still as a statue.

“Right now!” Daryl barked, then was nearly startled into pulling the trigger of his own gun, since the asshole didn’t slowly lower his gun to the ground. Instead his hand just spasmed and the gun fell with a clatter. Sasha spun around and grabbed before jumping down the steps. She looked like shit and had a hand pressed to her temple. Abe ran to her side and she pushed him gently away. She met Daryl’s eyes and nodded.

Rick was marching toward the porch, barking out, “Daryl, get him over here.”

Daryl told the asshole to keep his hands up and walk. He obeyed, walking a few jerky steps forward then nearly tripped and fell off the porch. It startled Daryl almost enough to pull the trigger of his gun _again_. But no, he wasn’t trying anything, just clumsy. He didn’t move at all after that, just stood there with his raised hands trembling. Without taking his gun off the asshole Daryl jumped down from the porch and circled around so he was standing in front of the guy. He could sense Rick at his back, knew his friend’s gun was raised. The sun was coming out and Daryl could make out these guy’s features better now. He _was_ small, smaller than the trench coat would have indicated. He had long brown hair that fell past his shoulders, was wearing a wool hat and a bandana that covered the lower half of his face. Only his eyes were visible.

“Keep them hands up, a—“ the morning light hit the guy’s eyes and Daryl saw they were the color of sea glass under thick brows. _Blue or green. Whichever you prefer._

Everything in the world stopped including Daryl, he was frozen a few feet from the guy with his gun raised. The barrel started to tremble, and Daryl realized it was because he was shaking. The guy was shaking too, his raised hands vibrating in the air, and his sea glass eyes were bright with unshed tears. As Daryl watched the guy took one unsteady hand and tugged the bandana down, revealing his face. 

The gun in Daryl’s hand was too heavy then, he couldn’t hold it up. His arm fell to his side, gun slipping from his fingers. This couldn’t be happening, it was another dream, like when Daryl saw him after he fell off the horse on Hershel’s farm. Somewhere far away people were saying Daryl’s name, someone telling him to get out of the way. In the corner of his eye he could see Rick moving toward him. But Daryl barely registered him, everything in the world that wasn’t Paul Rovia ceased to exist when his mind accepted what it was seeing.

Rick was at his side, gun raised, staring between the two of them. “Daryl, what-“ he started to say, but was interrupted by Paul. He let out a wordless, broken noise then his lips moved but no sound came. Daryl could see them form the shape of his own name.

The noise from Paul’s mouth made Rick jump, made him swing his gun around. Some instinct took over Daryl’s body without any warning and he lunged forward, grabbed Rick’s arm and jerked it up so the shot went wild.

“What the _hell—“_ Rick started to say when Daryl shoved him aside and took a lurching step forward. His knees felt wobbly and he wasn’t sure if he could stay on his feet, but if he fell he’d fucking crawl. Before he could Paul lunged for him, one hand extended. Daryl grabbed it and pulled him violently into an embrace. His arms slid around the slim body of the other man, disbelieving every sense, this had to be a dream, no matter how warm and solid and still _familiar_ Paul’s body felt in his arms.

************

Paul nearly lost his footing when Daryl grabbed him, and again when he was pulled into a rough embrace. The other man collapsed against Paul making him stagger. Daryl’s hand was on the back of his skull, his fingers were clutching his hair like he’d never let go. Paul’s knees buckled then, he couldn’t stay on his feet any longer. Daryl didn’t let go of him, and the two of them just sank gracelessly to their knees. Paul pressed his face into Daryl’s shoulder, and the scent of him filled his nose. Leather and cigarette smoke and _Daryl._ This was real, this wasn’t a dream, he’d somehow found Daryl Dixon hundreds of miles from home. He was alive, really alive, not a corpse shambling through the streets of Athens. A great, stabbing pain descended on his heart and he could barely breathe. Glaciers might like feel the same way cracking open as they melted in springtime.

Paul took in a deep breath and started sobbing like child.

************

The walk back into Alexandria was a blur. Daryl was aware of his family around him, asking confused questions, _Daryl who is this, you know this guy, what the hell._ Daryl’s answers were short, he could barely make himself form words in his shock. Paul was no better off, he couldn’t take his eyes off Daryl and hadn’t stopped crying since they collapsed against each other. Not the full on sobs anymore, but a steady leaking of water from his eyes. His hand was in Daryl’s the entire way, grip so hard it was painful but neither one was able to let go.

When they finally got to the Grimes house Daryl dragged Paul upstairs to his attic room, dismissed Rick with a terse, “I need to talk to him, I promise I’ll tell you everything,” and shut the door on his face.

Then it was just him and Paul alone. They said nothing to each other for a very long time, just stared. Then, as if there was some silent signal that both still responded to they lunged for each other again. Paul’s arms wound around his neck and he buried his face in the crook of Daryl’s shoulder. He could feel Paul’s hot, shuddery breaths against his skin, fingers digging painfully into Daryl’s back. He didn’t mind, Daryl couldn’t hold him tight enough or long enough and a little pain wasn’t enough to stop him. He wasn’t sure how long the two of them stood there silently pressed against each other, both reveling in the feel of the other’s living body.

Daryl was the one to finally disentangle them. They didn’t let go of each other, not completely. Just moved apart a little so they could look at each other. Paul was crying again, or maybe he had never stopped. Daryl reached out, dazed, and ran his hand down the other man’s face, fingertips skimming his skin. Paul squeezed his eyes shut and turned his face into Daryl’s palm, raising his own hand so he could hold Daryl’s in place.

“Ain’t never seen you cry before,” Daryl finally said.

Paul’s eyes squeezed tighter then opened, “I didn’t think I could anymore.”

“How,” Daryl choked out, “How are you here? I saw the crash on the news, they told me you…they said there were no survivors.”

“There were maybe a dozen survivors,” Paul said. His voice was rough, “The army came, napalmed the crash site to get the infected, then locked us up in quarantine at Fort McHenry. They wouldn’t let me call you.” The last sentence was hardly more than a whisper; Paul sounded like a hurt little kid. It was yet another headfuck, seeing Paul this off-kilter and vulnerable. Daryl had only seen him close to it three times—the day he came to Daryl’s house and said he was in love with him, when Daryl suggested they move in together, and when Paul told him about his mother’s murder.

“When did they let you out?” Daryl asked.

“They didn’t; they were already planning on killing us, I think. But they didn’t give the order for weeks, and I was able to escape right before.”

“ _Weeks,”_ Daryl rasped, taking an involuntary step back. Paul grabbed his hand to keep him from going too far, to hold onto him. Daryl needed it, he was torn between the urge to grab Paul again or punch the fucking wall. Paul had been locked up for _weeks_ by people who were planning on _killing_ him, while Daryl had been…what? Drinking himself to death? Following Merle around? If Daryl had known he would have grabbed every weapon he had and gone on _foot_ if he needed to, god help any geek or soldier who tried to stop him-

Paul let out a weak chuckle, and when Daryl blinked at him in confusion explained, “That look on your face. It’s how I knew they never told you I survived. Knew you would have come to get me if they had.” His face twisted, “I never considered you might be dead. Not until I got to the house.”

“You went to the _house_?” Daryl said, “When?”

“Maybe a month after the crash?” Paul said, “I don’t know exactly. It was a few weeks before I escaped, and it took me a few weeks to get into Athens.” He got quiet, staring at Daryl with wet eyes, “How,” he whispered, “How are _you_ here? When I got to the house everything was still there, undisturbed. The food, guns, your bow, fucking… _Lou…_ all I could think is you had to be dead to have left it all behind... _”_

Daryl felt that old guilt twist in him, “It was Merle. He came and dragged me away,” Daryl swallowed, and told Paul about how the house was surrounded when Merle had shown up, how Lou had been attacked by the dead and how Merle ended up knocking him out before he could help her. “I’m sorry,” Daryl whispered.

Paul’s face twisted, like he was trying to smile. All that happened was more tears spilling out. He rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath, mouth twisting into that ugly not-smile again, “I’m just glad that you got away, if you’d tried to save her you might have gotten bit, or…I never thought I’d say this, but thank god for Merle Dixon.” He looked away, jaw tight, “I owe him an apology, I think. Is he here?” Daryl didn’t answer, he didn’t have to. The silence was enough, and when Paul looked back at him Daryl knew it was all over his face. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“It’s fine,” Daryl said. Although it wasn’t fine, although nearly a year after Merle’s death Daryl was still fucked up about it.

An odd look passed over Paul’s face. “It worked out anyway. You’re safe, that’s the most important thing. Besides, the walkers didn’t get her,” his smile was closer to the real thing, “she was at the house when I got there.”

“ _What,”_ Daryl rasped out when the shock of this revelation hit him. “she was _there?_ ”

Paul nodded, “Hungry and dirty, but ok otherwise. Still is, for the most part,” he said, “She’s back with my group at our settlement. The Hilltop. It’s about forty miles from here.”

It was too much for Daryl. He remembered the first day he met Rick, remembered the other man saying he went through hell to find Lori and Carl. And Daryl…Daryl had just _accepted_ that Paul was dead, had just _accepted_ that Lou was dead. Had run away rather than deal with it, fuck, they could have been _together_ this entire time, he found himself stepping back again and again Paul wouldn’t let him.

“Hey,” Paul said, grabbing his hand, “You had every reason to think I was dead. I never saw your body, just assumed. Should have known you’d keep your promise,” he smiled, “Do you remember? You told me you wouldn’t die on me.”

“I remember,” he said. He felt on the brink of tears himself. He looked down at their linked hands, Paul’s left in Daryl’s right. Paul still had his gloves on, and Daryl untangled their fingers just enough to tug them off.

The little winged skull was still there. Like Daryl’s it had faded a bit over the past year and a half, particularly the wings curling around the sides of his finger. It was still recognizable. Daryl ran his thumb over it, then pulled Paul’s hand to his face and kissed it. He still wasn’t sure if he was dreaming or not, maybe he was dead and this was heaven. Most people would say it was a shitty heaven but Paul was in it and that was all that mattered. Paul was here, alive, standing in his room next to his simple bed, and his skin was warm against Daryl’s lips.

“Tell me this is real,” Paul whispered, echoing Daryl’s thoughts. “Tell me I’m not about to wake up and you’ll be gone again.”

“It’d better be fucking real,” Daryl said. His voice sounded low and gravely in his own ears, “If not I’m gonna kick…fucking, _someone’s_ ass _.”_

Paul smiled at that, then cupped the side of Daryl’s face. After a beat where they both gathered themselves they moved together in unison.

Their first kiss in a year and a half was very gentle, just a hesitant pressing of lips together, one that lasted only a few seconds. Even that was almost too much, Daryl’s fingers curled in Paul’s shirt, holding him tight, foreheads pressed together, both breathing rapidly.

“I missed you,” Paul whispered quietly, in that same hurt and vulnerable voice.

“I missed you too,” Daryl croaked out, “Every day. I used to talk to you, pretend I knew what you’d say.”

Paul let out a shuddery breath. The skin of his face was hot against Daryl’s own, and he thought the other man had started crying again. He confirmed it by bring a hand up to gently cup Paul’s face, wiping tears away with his thumb. Paul turned his head slightly so he could kiss Daryl’s palm, and in a shaky voice said, “Well. You don’t have to pretend anymore. Not ever again,” his voice broke, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have gone without you in the first place—“

Daryl couldn’t stand to hear Paul apologize to _him_ for what had happened. He decided to shut Paul up by kissing him, a real kiss this time. There was nothing gentle or hesitant about it. Paul went completely still, then he was surging forward, grabbing Daryl and pulling him in close again. It was a flash bang of desire, Paul opening his mouth and meeting Daryl’s tongue with his own eagerly. Fuck, it had been so long since Daryl had kissed him, he forgot how good it was. Forgotten the exact sounds Paul made when Daryl got rough and used his teeth, forgotten the gasp he made when they briefly broke apart for air before diving back in.

Paul’s hands were everywhere, pulling at Daryl’s hair, sliding down his back, caressing his shoulders and bare arms. Daryl was having less luck, Paul was wearing too many layers. Vest, shirt, a leather shoulder harness for his knives, two belts criss-crossed around his waist, and over all that the absurdly big trench coat. All of them blocking access to his skin. Daryl let out a frustrated noise and pulled away, slinging off his own vest and saying, “I need your help getting this shit off.”

Paul stood there looking dazed for a moment, mouth still open and blinking with confusion, “Oh,” he glanced at Daryl’s bed, “So we’re definitely doing this now?”

Daryl hesitated, “Do…do you not want to? I…fuck…” Maybe Paul was right, maybe they needed a bit more time to process this. Maybe Daryl just needed to control this animalistic part of him that wasn’t satisfied that Paul was actually here and alive, and needed to reaffirm it with his body. 

“Of course I fucking want to,” Paul said, interrupting this train of thought. He was already peeling out of his coat and fumbling at the buckles of his shoulder harness.

“Ok, good,” Daryl said, giving him another quick kiss that distracted them both. Overcome with impatience Daryl tried to help with the shoulder harness, but his own shaking fingers got in the way.

“Damnit, let me do that, worry about your own shit—“

Daryl gave an irritated snort, his own shit took all of five seconds to get out of, he didn’t even need to undo all the buttons of his shirt before he was able to tug it over his head. Paul had stopped working at his own clothes and was just staring, eyes flickering all over Daryl’s bare torso.

“What?” Daryl asked.

Paul swallowed and softly said, “You look good.”

Daryl glanced down at himself; he’d lost some weight in his middle because of lack of food and lack of beer but didn’t think it was so dramatic of an improvement to get that look from Paul. But he’d always been a little baffled by Paul’s attraction to him. Paul couldn’t take his eyes off him, his fingers were clumsily plucking at his clothes as Daryl stepped forward.

Daryl took over the undressing duties and Paul let him. Unzipping the quilted vest he wore, undoing the belts criss-crossing his narrow waist. Unbuttoning his shirt with hands that shook only a little. Paul’s body had changed, Daryl noted. A bit more muscle on his arms and chest. Daryl traced the curve of his hip up his sides and over his collarbones. Slid his arms around the other man, feeling Paul’s arms winding around him as well. Skin to skin contact from the waist up, the feel of Paul’s heart beating against his own. When they kissed it was slow but thorough, Daryl enjoying the soft scrape of Paul’s beard.

They fell back together against Daryl’s mattress. Slowly re-familiarizing himself with Paul’s body, fingers rediscovering lines of muscle and stretches of skin he’d forgotten existed. Feeling Paul’s hands doing the same, focusing mainly on Daryl’s shoulders and arms. Daryl wasn’t sure how long they did that, just laid entwined and kissing each other. They had to stop often to pull away and just look at each other, confirm that yes, this was real. Real physical desire came on slowly, Daryl wasn’t even fully hard, just absorbed in all his senses telling him that yes, this was Paul next to him, he was alive. That gentle rising flame flared into a bonfire without warning, making them scramble out of their pants, kicking off stubborn boots.

Then they were naked, bodies entwined. Skin-to-skin wasn’t enough, Daryl couldn’t get close enough to him. Couldn’t kiss him enough times or in enough places. Paul shifted so he was on top and Daryl threw a leg around his waist, holding him close. Paul pushed himself up on his elbows and knees then started thrusting his hips, rubbing his dick against Daryl’s in long slides.

Daryl shuddered and groaned as soon as Paul started moving. He shoved a hand in between them, wrapping his hand around both their dicks together. He had a brief flash of memory to their first time, how clumsy and desperate he was, how Paul got him off just by putting a hand on him.

Paul arced his neck back gasping, and he let out a cry when Daryl tightened his grip. It didn’t last much longer, just a few minutes of frantic grinding against each other before Paul cried out again, louder this time. Daryl could feel Paul’s dick pulsing against his own, felt him give a full body shudder as he spent himself between their bellies. Daryl followed shortly after, a few more thrusts and he was gone.

*************

After they were finished they lay on their sides facing each other, legs tangled and hands linked. Paul felt like a hole had been blown off the top of his head. He felt like he’s just had his skin pulled off an inch at a time. He felt like he was going to start fucking crying _again_ as Daryl’s warm fingers delicately traced his arms and over his hip.They slid down Paul’s thigh, hooked around his knee and bent Paul’s leg up around Daryl’s waist.

Daryl looked down at that leg, brow furrowing. He slid his hand down Paul’s calf, stopped against the scars from Shiva’s claws and said, “What did this to you?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Paul said, thinking of Shiva’s gleaming eyes.

“Looks like a bear or mountain lion,” Daryl murmured.

“You’re close,” Paul said, a smile coming to his face. His own hand came to a new scar on Daryl’s side, a circular little divot in his skin, “How did you get this?”

Daryl shifted and looked embarrassed. He let out a huff and said, “If I tell you it was ‘cause I fell off a horse onto one of my own damn arrows how hard would you laugh at me?”

Paul didn’t laugh at all, instead he turned solemn and his eyes started to burn again. Fuck, he was going to start crying. He couldn’t really explain why; maybe it was the thought that Daryl had been alive all this time, had clearly survived as much if not more than he himself had, and could have died because of a stupid accident. One that could’ve happened before the world ended. Or maybe he just had two decades’ worth of unshed tears that were finallybreaking free. He squeezed his eyes shut and felt tears slide down his cheeks.

“Hey,” Daryl whispered, “S’ok…”

The bed shifted and Paul felt the scrape of Daryl’s stubble as the other man pressed kisses again his eyelids. It made Paul shiver, made him grab the back of Daryl head and clutch his hair. Daryl kissed him on the mouth next, and for a few minutes Paul forgot about absolutely everything.

Daryl pulled away eventually, settling back on his side. They were quiet for several long minutes, staring into each other’s eyes. Daryl reached up and tucked a few strands of hair behind Paul’s ear and asked, “What are you doing here?”

“ _Here_ here, in this bed?” Paul replied, tracing Daryl’s bicep, “Thought that was obvious.”

“Near D.C., you little shit,” Daryl said, pinching into Paul’s side, “How’d you get from Georgia to here?”

“Ah,” Paul said. He started telling Daryl about Carmen and Mateo, beginning with their horrific first meeting in the wreckage of the airplane and ending with her saying she couldn’t wait to meet Daryl in D.C.

“After I went to the house and I found…when I thought you were dead, I didn’t have anywhere to go. Thought trying to find Carmen and the rest of the quarantine survivors would be my best shot. I don’t suppose,” Paul said, “You’ve seen anyone like that? Hispanic woman, young, pretty, baby is the cutest damn thing you’ve ever seen…”

“You haven’t met baby Judy yet,” Daryl grumbled.

“Who?”

“Rick’s daughter,” Daryl said, “And no, I ain’t seen nobody like that, or heard tell of it. I’m sorry.”

Paul sighed; every time he met a new group he asked the same question and got the same answer. The group probably never even made it to D.C., and Paul wondered what had happened to them.

“Maybe they realized that things here weren’t all that rosy, and found a place to hunker down.”

“I hope so,” Paul murmured, “Anyway, I found the Hilltop instead. So I live there now. At least when I’m not out scouting or looking for new communities.” Paul was lost in thought for a few moments, then thought of how warmly Daryl had referred to Sheriff Rick’s daughter. “These people you’re with,” Paul asked, “who are they?”

“They’re…they’re my family,” he answered. At Paul’s stare he explained, “I been with some of ‘em since the beginning, or almost. Rick ’n Glenn, the Korean kid I was with, I didn’t really introduce everyone…we was at this camp in Atlanta together at the start. Carol too, you haven’t…” Daryl trailed off. He pushed himself up to one elbow, twisting around to look out the window, as if searching for this Carol person. He gave Paul an odd look, “You hafta meet Carol, she’s my best friend, maybe. Her or Rick. And you really didn’t get to meet Michonne…Maggie, Glenn’s wife, always thought you’d like her…”

Paul stared at his boyfriend’s face, trying to process what he’d just said. Daryl was even worse at making friends than Paul,back in Athens there was just his coworker Marty and it took Daryl a few _years_ to start referring to him as a “friend”. Now Daryl had casually referred to a whole _group_ of people not just as friends, but _family._ He was shocked to feel slightly jealous, that these people had gotten a year and a half with Daryl while Paul thought he was dead. Which was beyond shitty, he should be glad for Daryl that he’d found people, and he was, but he was also jealous and to be honest a little scared. He’d never had to do the meet the parents thing with Daryl, never had to be presented to friends and family for approval. Fuck, no wonder Daryl had been terrified of coming to Chicago.

“They’ll like you,” Daryl grumbled.

“I might have blown my chance with Sasha and Beefcake,” Paul said.

“Beefcake…? Oh, Abraham,” Daryl said.

“They were kinda aggressive. High strung,” Paul said. He thought Shiva had given him a better reception under greater provocation.

Daryl was quiet before saying, “We been through a lot lately.”

Paul thought of what was left of Rory’s face when the Saviors were done with him. Thought of Lou’s cries while Dr. Carson cut off what was left of her leg. “There’s been a lot to go through lately,” he whispered. Then, “Why are you here? How did you get from Georgia to here? You said you met some of these people in Atlanta?”

Daryl was quiet for a very long time. Paul waited patiently, he looked like he was trying to find the right place to start.

“It’s a long story,” Daryl said. A strange look passed over his face, “I just…I told you how I used to talk to you. I feel like I’ve told you some already.” Paul didn’t say anything, he didn’t know what to do with that. Well, one thing, which was to feel the pricking of tears again. He scrubbed his face in irritation and thankfully was able to keep them in for once.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Paul said in a shaky voice, “Tell me as much as you can.”

Daryl cleared his throat and started talking Paul listened as the other man told him what had happened in the past year and a half. Him and Merle finding the Atlanta camp. Meeting Glenn and Carol and Carl first. Meeting others that he seemed to have trouble talking about. Meeting Rick.

“He left Merle cuffed to a roof?” Paul said in disbelief. As soon as he said it he remembered his own conversation with Merle, the guilt he felt keeping that secret from Daryl. “I’ve got to tell you something, about Merle, I was going to—“

“He told me about your visit,” Daryl said quietly.

“Oh,” Paul said just as quietly.

“I get why you did it, and why you didn’t say nothing,” Daryl added. When Paul didn’t have anything more to say Daryl continued, “Yeah, Rick left Merle there. Went back for ‘im though…”

Daryl continued his story. Reaching the CDC. Finding out about the plague, what it really meant. Nothing Paul hadn’t already learned in quarantine. Heading west toward Fort Benning. Carol’s daughter Sophia. His voice got a little unsteady when he said her name. “Wanted to find her so bad,” he whispered, “For her mama, and she…she was just a little kid. Real sweet.” He wiped his face.

“I’m sorry,” Paul whispered, “I know you did all you could.”

The Greene farm. Maggie, the woman Daryl had mentioned to him, her father Hershel, and her sister Beth. His voice broke again and Paul knew what had happened to her. The winter on the move after the farm fell. Finding the prison, fighting with someone called the Governor. Finding Merle again, as part of this Governor’s group. Merle’s death. To Paul’s surprise Daryl’s voice was steady, although he was clearly hurting still over it.

“Once the Governor was gone, we set the prison up real good. We had a good place, not fancy like this here place, but good…then the Governor came back.”

“You don’t have to talk about that now,” Paul said quietly. Whatever had happened it had been bad, he could see it all over Daryl’s face. He didn’t cry and his voice didn’t break, instead he looked like he had just mentally checked out which was even worse.

Daryl nodded and looked grateful, “Anyway,” he said, coming back to himself, “We lost a lot of good people. After that, too. While we was on the road moving around, looking for a new place we found Abraham’s group. They were headed to Washington, said they had a guy who was a scientist, could fix some things.” At Paul’s disbelieving look Daryl snorted and said, “Yeah, he was full of shit. But Michonne, she reckoned there was a reason Eugene wanted to go to Washington, that it would be the best place to find a place we could live. Eugene probably figured out some of what you were talking about, how the military would fall back to Washington. So we came here, and found this place.” Daryl told Paul about the quarry full of walkers, about the Wolves, about the asshole in the forest who stole his bike and his bow, and then he said something that made Paul’s blood freeze cold.

“On the way back we met these assholes on bikes, whole gang of ‘em. Leader of them told us all our shit belonged to a guy named Negan—Paul?”

Paul realized he must have gone pale, “These biker guys…was the leader you’re talking about a short guy? Dark hair, grey beard? Loved the sound of his own voice?”

“Yeah,” Daryl said. Whatever he saw on Paul’s face made his own darken, made him look truly scary, “Did you, did they…?”

“They came to the Hilltop,” Paul said quietly, “Killed one of us. That leader guy—Bud—acted like he was going to pick me for that first. Lou flipped out and he shot her, she nearly died…after that they picked someone else. Rory. Beat him to death right in front of all of us. He was sixteen.”

Daryl’s nostrils flared and that dark, scary look came back with a vengeance, “They’re dead,” he said in a voice Paul barely recognized, “All of ‘em.”

“Thank you,” Paul said, although Daryl hadn’t done it knowingly, “There’s more of them, though. They call themselves ‘The Saviors’. They’ve been…” Paul swallowed, “That’s why the Hilltop needs supplies. They’ve been taking half of everything.”

“Why haven’t y’all killed them?”

“We’re down to spears and bows at the Hilltop,” Paul said, “And no one there can fight but me.”

“Said there’s more of them,” Daryl growled, “How many?” He looked ready to jump out of bed then and there, grab a gun, and go kill each and everyone of the Saviors all by himself.

“We’ve seen groups as large as twenty,” Paul replied, “I think there’s at least twice as many, though…maybe less, now that you took those dickheads out,” Paul shrugged, “Enough to get us under their thumb. Some other communities too.”

Daryl was breathing hard, still looking murderous. He’d seen the Dixon death glare back in Athens before the world had ended, had seen it again on Merle’s face in the prison, saw it earlier this morning, but it was nothing compared to the expression Daryl wore now.

“Daryl?”

“Prick pulled a gun on you then shot our fucking dog,” Daryl growled,“I had ‘em right there in front of me and had no idea. Killed ‘em all quicker than they deserved.”

“They’re dead, that’s all I care about,” Paul said.

Paul could feel Daryl’s fingers jitter nervously against his skin. Eventually he nodded. Before Paul could say anything Daryl rolled forward, pinning Paul beneath him and attacking his mouth.

Where before was slow and dreamy this was quick and intense, leaving Paul sweaty and struggling to breathe when it was over. He raised a shaking hand to his neck, the skin tender from love bites. “Holy fuck,” Paul whispered.

Daryl just grunted. He’d rolled off Paul and was lying sprawled on his back with his eyes were half closed. It hit Paul that he’d been awake for thirty some hours and in that time he’d he’d gotten into a pretty intense fight, had the shock of his fucking life, had been talking to Daryl for hours, and had sex with him twice. Daryl was fucking alive and Paul had been talking to him and making love for hours. _Daryl was alive._ The fact was no less shocking than it had been however many hours ago when he first learned it.

It was a lot, and like a cartoon character who only falls of a cliff when he looks down Paul started crashing as soon as he realized just how much he’d been through since yesterday. His own eyelids grew heavy and he found himself yawning.

When Daryl saw he started, then stretched out an arm, “Come here.”

For the first time since that morning Paul was convinced he had to be dreaming but was too exhausted to care. He shifted in bed, rolling over so he could sling an arm around Daryl’s chest and a leg around his waist. He tucked his head into Daryl’s shoulder, felt the other man’s arm slid around him. Daryl's other arm was grabbing the sheet and pulling it over them both. Any remaining tension left Paul’s body, he felt like all his bones had been turned to jelly. Felt like the past year and a half was a nightmare he was about to wake up from.

“I love you,” Daryl said thickly, “Never stopped.”

Paul almost laughed, “I didn’t expect you to. I never did. I love you too, so much.”

Daryl’s fingers were in his hair, nails against his scalp, “You gonna sleep?”

“Rick,” Paul said, struggling to stay awake, “The rest of your…family. They need to talk to you?”

“It can wait,” Daryl grumbled, “Go to sleep.”

“Just for a bit,” Paul whispered. He could hear Daryl’s heartbeat, a soothing rhythm.

Sleep came with a suddenness and ease it hadn’t in a year and a half.

************

Daryl woke with a start, he’d drifted off without realizing it. The light in the room was the slanted, yellowy light of late afternoon or early evening. Daryl thought it might be five or six o’clock. Paul shifted against his chest and murmured something but didn’t wake.

It took Daryl a moment to wake up all the way and overcome his astonishment that Paul was here, in his arm, alive and breathing. He tightened his arms around him, trembling with gratitude.

He was snapped out of it by a sharp knock on the door, and Daryl realized what had woken him up in the first place. The doorknob turned, door opening just a crack, then no farther.

“Daryl?” he heard Rick’s voice whisper, “Daryl, are you awake?”

“Yeah,” he said. Paul stirred again, and Daryl closed his eyes, running a hand down his back. He didn’t want to talk to Rick, didn’t want to move from this bed for any reason whatsoever. But he supposed he owed his friend an explanation.

Daryl slipped out from underneath Paul’s arm carefully. Rolled over to the side of the bed and looked down on him. He got to his feet and went hunting for his pants, tugging them on before going to the door. He opened itan inch or two wider, just enough so he could see Rick and talk to him.

“Hey,” Rick said, eyes flicking down to Daryl’s bare shoulder. Daryl flushed, he knew he was covered in love bites and beard burn from his neck to his knees.

“Just, um,” Daryl swallowed, “Just give me a minute.”

Rick nodded; Daryl couldn’t read his expression. He stepped back and closed the door, rubbing a hand over his face for a few seconds before tiptoeing back to the bed and grabbing the rest of his clothes.

Rick’s intrusion hadn’t roused Paul, his breathing was deep and even and he hadn’t moved an inch. Daryl stared at him, heart jerking his chest so hard he needed to sit down at the edge of the bed again. His hand was shaking a little when he reached out to stroke Paul’s hair. He leaned in close and kissed him until he felt Paul stir, felt his breath catch.

“Mmmm, Daryl,” Paul murmured. When Daryl pulled back a few inches to look at him he saw one of Paul’s eyes opened just a crack.

“Hey,” Daryl whispered, still stroking Paul’s hair, “I gotta talk to Rick, ok?”

That one open eye slid closed, and Paul let out a sleep mumble that sounded like, “Minute…get up…just need…”

“You don’t need to get up, sleep for a bit,” Daryl answered.

Paul replied with more sleep mumbling. Daryl debated waking him all the way, but decided against it. He wanted to talk to everyone alone first, he didn’t know if he’d be able to explain everything without getting distracted if Paul was sitting there next to him.

He got reluctantly to his feet. He hesitated another moment, then grabbed his vest off of the floor and laid it on the pillow next to Paul’s sleeping face. Daryl didn’t think he’d wake up any time soon but didn’t want to take any chances. Then he gathered himself together and went to talk to Rick. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally going to be two chapters with the first one ending after they see each other and hug but the Christmas spirit moved me. I'm not sure when Chapter 24 will be up, or how many more chapters until the end. Right now I'm thinking 26 but this darn thing keeps ballooning out of control.


	24. Daryl & Paul: Part II

To Daryl’s relief when he walked into the kitchen it was just Rick, Michonne, and Carol waiting for him. The three of them were talking in low voices that went silent as Daryl walked in, and he could feel himself flush. He’d stopped in the bathroom to do some cursory washing up but was still intensely aware that he may as well have what he’d done with Paul written on his forehead. Which he knew was ridiculous to feel embarrassed over, he’d just seen Rick and Michonne in all their glory this morning. Even if he hadn’t he would have hardly been the worst offender, he’d lost count of how many times they’d walked in on Glenn and Maggie over the past year and a half. During the winter on the road before they found the prison Daryl reckoned that the only thing that stopped the two kids from going at it in the same room in front of everyone was Hershel.

 _Paul would have loved Hershel,_ Daryl thought suddenly. Hershel was like Rick, a father before he was anything else. He transferred that on to almost everyone in the group—particularly Glenn, Rick, and even Daryl himself at times. Paul had never known his own father and hadn’t had much in the way of replacement figures; Daryl thought would Paul would have soaked up Hershel’s warm and patient love like a sponge. He shook himself out of that thought, there was no reason to speculate on what the dead would have thought when the living were right in front of him, staring at him with expectant faces. Daryl opened his mouth, then closed it again, unsure of what to say.

“Where’s your…friend?” Carol asked. Daryl was grateful she’d spared him the duty of breaking the silence. Still she had managed to load that one word, _friend,_ with more weight than one syllable should be allowed.

“Um,” Daryl said, “Thought I’d let ‘im sleep. Said he’d been awake awhile, ‘sides when he’s out he’s _out._ ”

“Well, you’d obviously know,” Rick said slowly, then, “Who exactly is this guy?”

Daryl looked at the three pairs of eyes staring at him and was jolted by the realization that they _knew,_ or guessed. Michonne’s eyes in particular looked soft, and he was hit with a memory of their time on the road hunting for good old Philip. Seeking shelter in an abandoned office building, the two of them bunking down in an empty cubicle. On the walls of the cubicle were cards shaped like paper hearts and cheesy sayings like “ _be mine_ ” and “ _It’s love!”_ and “ _to my darling wife.”_ He remembered the way Michonne stared at them, tracing the embossed lettering on one card with a single finger. The look on her face made Daryl wonder if she’d been married before the end, but he never asked her. Looking at her face now he didn’t just wonder, he _knew._

 _“_ He’s my…”Daryl started to say, then stopped. Without Paul standing in front of him with wet eyes the amount of time they’d been apart fully hit Daryl. Eighteen months, give or take. Could you still call someone your boyfriend or husband if you thought he was dead for over a year? Daryl had gotten used to the grief that came with being a widower, to go back to being part of a couple after so much time made his head spin. It was a complicated emotion, he wasn’t sure exactly what to say. _He’s called Paul and he’s thirty-three by now, his birthday was in October, he’s smart and funny and tough, he likes football and pretentious nerd rock and weird shit he finds on the side of the road including me, he runs hot in his sleep, he goes up and down the climbing wall at the gym like he’s a monkey, he has a gorgeous voice but he’s shy about it unless he’s in the shower, he’s the love of my life._

“Um,” Daryl said, running his thumb over the tattoo on his ring finger, “His name’s Paul, Paul Rovia. We were together before everything happened. I thought he was dead, he thought the same about me.” Actually, it wasn’t that complicated when you said it like that.

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?” Rick asked after several long moments.

“I,” Daryl swallowed, and shifted his shoulders, “I couldn’t talk about it. I mean at first I didn’t know any of you, didn’t know how you’d react to the whole queer thing.” When he glanced at Rick out of the corner of his eye he was surprised to see that the other man looked _hurt._ _“_ But mostly ‘cause I just didn’t want to talk ‘bout him.”

He looked at Michonne again, and again he saw something on her face he recognized. He’d never asked her who she’d lost besides Andrea, they’d all lost people, everyone in the entire damn world had lost somebody. Rick’s eyes were on Daryl but he must have sensed something because he turned back and gave Michonne a concerned look and reached for her hand.

“You were together before the end? How long?” Carol asked.

“A long time,” he said, then Daryl took in a breath and continued, “Almost six years ago Merle was in the clink for dealin’ meth to college kids. I rode down on my bike on the weekends to visit him. One day this douchebag in a yellow truck sideswiped me and totaled my bike—“ He gave them the cliff notesversion of Daryl and Paul, of that fateful meeting by the side of the road, of beers down at the Georgia bar, moving in together. Seeing the news of the plane crash, the horrible phone call confirming Paul’s death. Seeing him alive after all this time.

“What’s he doing here, in DC?” Carol asked when he’d finished.

“Same thing we are,” Daryl replied, giving them a brief outline of what Paul had said about Hilltop and the Saviors. Daryl watched something settle over Rick’s face, a hardening of his eyes. “Those people attacked you on the road, he said his community’s working for them?”

“Not by _choice,”_ Daryl growled, “Paul said there’s only about thirty or forty of ‘em, _we_ could take ‘em out quick as anything—“ As soon as the words were out of his mouth Daryl realized just how _badly_ he wanted to do it. He’d killed the sons of bitches who’dbeen inches from killing Paul, who _had_ shot their dog, but it wasn’t enough for him. They all needed to go, if they were going around killing kids and shooting dogs and stealing people’s supplies.

“It might not come to that,” Carol said softly, “It doesn’t have to come to that.”

“It _could,”_ Daryl said. He was thinking of the Governor and those rotten little shits from Terminus and the Wolves, all the assholes they _knew_ were out there. They’d all taken people from Daryl, attacked his home, and now these Saviors had _tried to kill Paul._ He wanted them dead.

“It’d be a fight,” Michonne said meditatively. She glanced at Rick and added, “We’d win it, though.”

“Maybe,” Rick acknowledged, “But we need to check this out, think about it, find out if what’s going on is what… _Paul_ says is.”

Daryl stared at him in disbelief, “Paul’d never lie to me.”

“I’m not saying that, I’m saying you haven’t seen him for a year, you don’t know what he’s done—“

“I don’t _need_ to know what he’s done,” Daryl interrupted, “We’ve _all_ done shit we never thought we’d do before all this happened.”

“Some of us more than others,” Rick reminded him, “Now, misunderstanding or not he attacked Abe and Sasha—“

“He was _provoked,”_ Daryl growled out. It hit him then, everything that had happened. Sasha had _shot_ at Paul, only his quick reflexes had saved him. He could have died a few miles away and Daryl would never have even known about it. Could have just gone about his day like an asshole while Abraham and Sasha looted Paul’s body and came back. He could imagine it so clearly, Abraham reporting to Rick that he and Sasha had found someone dangerous, eliminated the threat. Fuck, Daryl himself had pointed his gun at Paul’s back and debated on pulling the trigger.

It took everything Daryl had to not bolt upstairs to the attic and make sure that Paul was still there, asleep and wound up in the sheets. That it wasn’t a dream or a hallucination or some cosmic mistake of the universe giving him Paul back, a mistake that needed correcting.

Rick must have sensed his mood, because his voice was cautious when he spoke, “Like I said, I just want to talk to him, be sure about him. You know him, or _knew_ him, but we don’t.”

“We weren’t just meeting weekly for tea and fucking crackers. We _lived_ together, for _years…_ do you remember asking me once if I was married?” Daryl said. 

“I remember,” Rick said, his voice thick with an emotion Daryl couldn’t read. “At the grist mill we stayed at for a week or so, right in the beginning.”

Daryl’s throat tightened when he said, “It wasn’t legal but we was…” He wondered again if you could call a man whose death you’d accepted and spent the past year away from your husband still. He looked at the skull on his ring finger, remembered Paul saying it was for the whole “’til death do us part” thing. Neither one of them were dead, that miraculous thought still staggered Daryl. “We _are_ just as married as Maggie ’n Glenn are, or you and Lori were.”

A hand was on his wrist, and he looked up to see it was Michonne. She’d leaned in and was looking at him with nothing but kindness. “Hey,” she said, “Breathe. It’s ok. You said you were as good as married to this guy, and if you still trust him then so do we. Right, Rick?”

Daryl glanced up at his friend, heart ice cold. When Merle had bluntly asked him back in the prison’s visitor center to _choose_ his brother or his lover, Daryl chose Paul and despite of everything it had _hurt._ To be forced to let go of Merle. Daryl would make the same choice if his new brother made the same demand, _him or me,_ and it would hurt so much fucking worse this time.

“Yeah,” Rick said, “But it’s not about trusting him,” Rick said, “Don’t make a difference either way, we just don’t take chances anymore.”

“Don’t see what the big deal is,” Daryl muttered, “I tried to knife you the first time we met. World the way it is, people are on edge, act without thinkin’ things through.”

“And we’ve had people we’ve known since before the beginning turn on us,” Rick said, and Daryl knew he was thinking about Shane. Before Daryl could shout at him for _that_ comparison Rick continued, “I trust your judgement, I just want to be sure. Know all the details before we rush into anything. Ok?”

“Ok,” Daryl said, feeling some of the tension in his shoulders ease a bit. He nodded and said, “Fine.”

“Besides that,” Carol said, in a voice that still seemed a little quiet and distant, “We’d just like to meet him. He’s important to you.”

Daryl nodded, “Well, I can go wake him up ina bit, introduce him to everyone.”

“Sooner the b-“ Rick started to say, but was interrupted by Michonne.

“We can let him rest some more,” she said, “I know Maggie wanted to talk to him, she’s a little pissed because of Sasha,” Michonne looked at Carol, “Do you want to come with me? We can go get her, and Sasha too if she’s feeling up to it. Clear the air, make sure there’s no hard feelings.”

Everyone including Daryl agreed it would probably be for the best, and the two women left not long after. Daryl was alone in the kitchen with Rick for a moment. The other man shifted awkwardly and said, “I’m sorry, I’m…I’m not trying to be a dick. I’m…I’m so happy for you, that you found him, but some things can be too good too be true.”

Daryl swallowed and couldn’t look at him, “I know. But you can trust him, I promise.”

Rick did that awkward shift again before blurting out, “I knew. For a long time. About the gay thing, I mean. Not that you had somebody, though. I’m sorry if I ever said anything that made you think I’d have a problem—”

“You didn’t,” Daryl said quickly, face getting hot, “Never. That wasn’t it, wasn’t just you.”

Rick continued, “I know Merle said some things—“

“ _Rick,”_ Daryl pleaded, “You never did, ok? Don’t worry about it.” He wasn’t just talking out of his ass, Rick never had, never once. When Daryl first met him he assumed Rick was just some asshole cop, an impression that wasn’t helped by learning what had gone down between Rick and Merle, and later some of the shit with Shane. By the time he realized that Rick wouldn’t care about “the gay thing” Daryl just didn’t feel the need to bring it up.

“Ok,” Rick said, then repeated, “I _am_ happy for you, you know.”

“Thanks,” Daryl said, feeling embarrassed. Neither man spoke for a few minutes. Daryl studied Rick from the corner of his eye, thinking of how his friend’s eyes had followed Michonne when she left with Carol. You’d have to be blind or stupid not to see it; and it wasn’t like he even needed to see it at that point. He’d seen and heard plenty earlier that day.

“So,” Daryl said, breaking the silence, “You’n Michonne, when that start?”

Rick looked flustered but happy, “It _just_ happened, last night was the first time we…” it was Rick’s turn to shift with embarrassment, “It’s…it’s something new, something different.”

“Good,” Daryl said, “What’s Carl think?” He couldn’t imagine the kid would have too many objections, Michonne doted on both the Grimes children and they loved her right back. But kids could also be weird about that shit.

“He said it was ‘cool’,” Rick replied.

“Well,” Daryl said, “took you long enough.”

“I just needed things to settle down so I could catch my breath,” Rick retorted.

“You think shit’s settled?” Daryl said it flippantly, but Rick’s face turned grave.

“I think we’re about to find out, once I get a chance to talk to your boyfriend. Husband."

*************

Since Paul came to the conclusion that Daryl was dead he had many dreams where the other man was in fact alive. Some were nightmares, Paul running into his arms only for Daryl to shift into a walker. Others were simply finding Daryl alive somewhere, usually looking confused as to why Paul was so upset. He’d a few dreams that were mixed with memories of the two of them fucking, dreams that made him wake up in damp sheets and sticky with sweat. So it was inevitable that when he woke up to an empty bed and cool sheets his first thought was a crippling, _It was just a dream, none of it actually happened._ His sleep-muddled brain reflected that it had seemed so _real,_ full of more details and textures than any of the dreams he’d had before. A cruel trick from his subconscious, reuniting him with Daryl and creating a perfectly plausible explanation for him still being alive. He could even _smell_ the other man in his nostrils…

Consciousness returned to him fully, and when he opened his eyes he saw that next to him was a leather motorcycle vest with angel wing patches sewn on the back. The wings had probably once been white, but were now dirty gray and faded. There was a small hole and a rust-colored stain on one of the wings, a fractured memory came to him, _asshole cut me a little,_ was what Daryl said when he told Paul about the Saviors stopping him on the road. Chasing that memory brought another, Daryl slinging this vest off his shoulders before they made love. Paul stretched out a shaking hand and laid it against the leather vest. He became more and more aware of his surroundings, realized that his eyes were sore and gummy, that it was almost dark again, that he was naked in an unfamiliar bed.

Paul jerked upright then stumbled out of the bed, got tangled in the sheets and fell to the ground. He squirmed free and scrambled to his feet, eyes darting all over the room looking for his clothes. He found his jeans, tugged them on with shaking hands, spent all of three seconds hunting for his shirt before abandoning the attempt and stumbling out of the bedroom.

Outside of the bedroom there was a narrow set of stairs leading to the second floor. Paul took them two at a time until he got halfway down then jumped the rest of the way, landing lightly on his feet. He had a moment of confusion, he hadn’t registered much about the layout of the house when Daryl first dragged him up to the attic. _Hallway,_ he thought, _bedrooms, a staircase, holy fuck this place was enormous, how many people_ were _there—_

Paul shook his head to clear it and started down the hallway. Before he reached the stairs he saw Daryl was just coming up, a glass of water in one hand. Their eyes met and the look on Paul’s face made him hastily set it down to the ground. He was just straightening up when Paul tackled him, jumping up and throwing his arms around the other man’s neck. Daryl’s own arms slid around Paul’s back, holding him close. Paul realized he was trembling. _You’re here, he’s alive, this is real,_ he mentally repeated to himself. He couldn’t really believe it despite of the rest of his senses providing evidence, drinking in the feel and solidness of Daryl’s body pressed against his own. It took a few moments of Daryl rubbing little circles on Paul’s back and grumbling nonsense in his ear for him to calm down. When he was able to make himself pull away from Daryl he realized that his face was wet, he was fucking crying _again._

“Sorry,” he said, rubbing his hand against his eyes, “I woke up and you weren’t there—“

Daryl’s arms were around him again, and Paul allowed himself to be held. “ _I’m_ sorry,” Daryl murmured, “You were _out_ ; thought I’d be back ‘fore you woke up.”

“I’m ok,” Paul muttered, “Just…” he trailed off. There was the scrape of Daryl’s beard as he kissed Paul on the cheek, the gentle slide of calloused fingers down Paul’s bare back. After a moment Daryl took a step back to bend down and retrieve the water glass from the floor.

“Here,” he grumbled, “Drink some of this.”

Paul made a grateful noise and took it from him, slurping down almost the entire glass in a few gulps. The water was _cold,_ he registered dimly. Beads of water had condensed on the outside, and when he was finished drinking he pressed the glass against his forehead.

“Thanks,” he said. His voice sounded slightly less rough in his own ears after his drink. Daryl stood just in front of him, not touching but close enough.

“Are you ok?” Daryl murmured.

“Yeah,” Paul replied. When he glanced at Daryl’s face the other man looked skeptical, so Paul added, “I am. Really.”

“Ok,” Daryl finally said, before looking down nervously at his feet, “Rick wants to talk to you,” Daryl said, “the others too.”

“Makes sense,” Paul said. He glanced down at his bare chest, “I need to find a shirt first.”

******

Daryl led him downstairs to the kitchen where a small crowd was gathered. All of them were the people Daryl had casually referred to as _family,_ something that Paul was still having trouble wrapping his brain around. His boyfriend who was even more of a loner than Paul was with a kitchen packed full of people who were all staring at  him with varying degrees of caution and mistrust.

He recognized Sheriff Rick and his wife Michonne, of course. Between them was a teenage boy with his face wrapped in bandages, Rick’s son Carl. That would have been obvious even without Daryl introducing them; in addition to a strong physical resemblance shared with his father there just something about the way he carried himself and the expression on his face.

Next was Glenn; Paul had registered the other man vaguely back in the burned out house but by then Paul was oblivious to anything that wasn’t Daryl. He looked to be about Paul’s age, an incredibly handsome Asian guy with killer cheekbones and warm brown eyes. Daryl introduced him to Paul properly along with his wife Maggie. Daryl had said earlier that he’d always thought Paul would like her, and he thought he could see why. She had sharp green eyes and a don’t-fuck-with-me expression, something enhanced by the fact she looked a little pallid and ill.

The last person Daryl introduced him to was Carol, the woman he called his “best friend” a few hours earlier. She was a handsome older woman with silver hair cut pixie-style and when she gave Paul a sweet smile she looked just like a soccer mom from _before._ Except for her eyes; they were  an icy shade of blue and just as hard and watchful as Sheriff Rick’s were.

 _So this was what it was like to meet the parents_ , Paul thought to himself. He wanted to throw himself off a cliff. Instead he said, “Hello. Um. I’m Paul, Paul Rovia. But most people call me Jesus these days, so. Your pick.”

Beside him Daryl scoffed, “Really?”

“You started it,” Paul retorted.

“Called you Jesus _once,_ maybe twice, when I didn’t know your name—“

“You called me that way more than once or twice, you were out of your mind on drugs off and on for _weeks_ after that—“

“Ain’t no reason to introduce yourself to new folks as _Jesus—“_

“I don’t, I let them pick, seems people prefer it—“

Sheriff Rick cleared his throat pointedly, and Paul flushed. Right. He was meeting the parents, petty bickering didn’t look good. There was an empty seat at the table and Daryl gestured for him to sit down. Paul obeyed. Daryl didn’t take a seat, just stood beside Paul’s chair, like a knight standing guard. Paul wanted to tell him to stop hovering like a weirdo and sit down but he was still a bit unnerved by the intense scrutiny he was getting from Daryl’s “family.”

“So how’d you find us?” Rick asked, interrupting his thoughts.

“You’ve picked the surrounding area pretty clean,” Paul answered honestly, “It was just a matter of following the empty gas tanks back here. I didn’t knock on the door because it was dark and I didn’t want to get shot, so I decided to come back in the morning. That’s when I ran into…” Paul trailed off, realizing both Sasha and Abraham were absent. His heart sped up and he asked, “Sasha. Is she ok?”

“Concussion, looks like.” Maggie said, still studying him a little coolly, then when she saw the stricken look on his face added, “Should be alright in a day or so.”

Relief flooded him. She’d _seemed_ ok, but head injuries were head injuries and he’d never forgive himself if he’d caused permanent harm. “If she needs a doctor then there’s one at my settlement—“

“We got a doctor here,” Maggie said.

“Could always use more,” Paul said, “And our medical trailer is well supplied, it’s a FEMA model. Has a generator to run the x-ray machine, an ultrasound, all kinds of stuff.”

“An ultrasound?” Glenn said, shifting to attention.

“Yeah,” Paul said, looking slowly between the young couple, comprehension dawning. “Are you…?” he asked Maggie. The woman tried to maintain her cool reserve but she wasn’t a good enough actress to hide her fear and excitement. Paul hurriedly said, “Well, I know you have a doctor here, but Doctor Carson is an obstetrician. He’s already delivered a few babies at the Hilltop, if you need anything he can help.”

Neither Maggie nor Glenn could hide the spark of hope in their eyes at the mention of an obstetrician. Paul realized right there that the two of them were _scared,_ even more than would be expected. He glanced at Michonne and remembered Daryl mentioning that Rick also had a baby daughter; he wondered if the birth had been difficult. That would be enough to give anyone extra pause on top of the already perilous circumstances they were living under. Michonne seemed ok _now,_ though.

“That’s convenient,” Rick said, interrupting this line of thought. His tone of voice was unreadable enough his words could be heard as either suspicious or genuine.

Behind him he could sense Daryl tensing, hear the faint shift of his nervous shuffling. Sheriff Rick’s opinion clearly held a lot of weight with Daryl. Paul couldn’t see him but he would still have confidently bet that Daryl was twitching his fingers against his thigh like crazy right now. He decided to take the statement at face value, “It _is_ convenient, yeah. We’re lucky to have him. He also isn’t half bad at treating animals, as it turns out.”

Rick studied him, eyes dropping down to where Paul’s hands were resting against the table. Looking at the tattoo on Paul’s ring finger. “Who’s ‘we’?”

“My community, the Hilltop. It’s a good place, with good people. Like this,” he looked around at the spacious house, “Smaller in size, though. At least physically. There’s only one house for us to share, for starters.”

“How many people would that be?” Rick continued.

Paul hesitated; “family” or not Rick Grimes was one scary son of a bitch and Paul would have held a _lot_ more back without Daryl’s vouching for him. Without thinking Paul turned back to look at Daryl for reassurance. The other man gave a slight nod, so Paul answered honestly. “We’re at eighty or so. What about you?”

“Enough,” Rick said evasively, only for Daryl to mutter that there were fifty-eight of them.

Rick’s eyes flicked between Daryl and Paul then said, “There were more of us, but shit happens. Understand that’s true of from where you’re from as well.”

Paul’s jaw tightened; he had to forcefully remind himself again that these were _Daryl’s_ people, that Daryl trusted them. It still made him uneasy to just bluntly tell strangers how damned _vulnerable_ Hilltop at the moment, particularly strangers who were well-armed and looked like they knew how to fight. “Yeah. Shit’s happened at the Hilltop.” Everyone in the kitchen was staring at him, and Paul shifted under their scrutiny. Daryl leaned in closer and brushed his fingertips against Paul’s shoulder. That light touch provided enough warmth and love to fill him all the way down to his toes, so Paul took in a breath and began talking. “They call themselves the Saviors, and they answer to a man they call Negan.”

Paul talked for a long time. He told them what he’d told Daryl and then some, describing the initial attack on the Hilltop, the drop-offs, the increasing demands for _more._ He ended with, “They take half of everything—our crops, our supplies, some of the livestock. And it’s not just us, there’s other settlements under their thumb.”

“Wait, other settlements?” Maggie interrupted, leaning forward, “There’s other settlements out there that you’re in contact with besides these ‘Saviors’?”

Paul snorted, “Your world’s about to get a whole lot bigger. For good and bad. Besides the Saviors there’s a handful of other settlements we trade with. Most are no more than half a dozen people, give or take. Homesteads out on the frontier. Or library, in one case.”

“Most,” Rick said, “Any your size?”

“One, the Kingdom…” Paul trailed off.

_Oh fuck._

He was very glad Daryl was standing to his side and not looking at him directly in the face. Absurd as it was up until this moment he’d forgotten that Daniel even existed at all; much less thought about him enough wonder how Daryl would react when he knew.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._

“Something the matter?” Rick asked, eyes narrowing a fraction.

Paul swallowed; he’d give anything to be having this conversation with Rick the same way he’d had his only one with Merle—with bulletproof glass between them. Paul reminded himself that Rick was a good man, he had to be a good man or Daryl wouldn’t love him so fiercely.

“I’m sorry,” Paul said evasively, “But people at the Kingdom put me in their confidence, and it’s hard to just blather out all their secrets to people I don’t know.” It wasn’t totally a lie, just a deflection. He wasn’t going to start talking about Daniel here at the kitchen table in front of Daryl’s nearest and dearest. That was a conversation just for the two of them. Daryl’s fingers brushed Paul’s shoulders again. _You can trust him. “_ The Kingdom has twice as many as the Hilltop. At least.”

“More than two hundred people,” Rick said, “And forty guys were enough to subdue both settlements?”

“It only took eight of them to subdue Hilltop,” Paul said flatly, “They had guns and we didn’t. We don’t really have any one who can _fight_. Most of the people who live there have been there since the beginning. They got lucky, finding a safe place. A lot of them are children. It took more of them to subdue the Kingdom, and they wouldn’t have been able to do it at all if not for bad luck. Recently they tried to expand, ran into more roamers than they could handle, ended up with two dozen of their fighters killed or injured. There are children and old people there too, just like at the Hilltop.”

“We had a problem with that ourselves not too long ago, we managed,” Rick said.

“Rick, it’s not a competition,” Michonne said. Her tone was gentle but Rick looked chastened all the same. Looking at them it was clear who was in charge in _that_ particular relationship. “These Saviors,” Michonne continued, “You said there’s forty of them. But you don’t _know.”_

“No,” Paul said, “I haven’t been to their community, I haven’t been able to find it. I tried tracking them a few times after a drop-off, but it didn’t end well.”

“You didn’t tell me about that,” Daryl growled, low and feral.

Paul shrugged, “They didn’t see enough to recognize me, just noticed I’d been following. Got shot at but they didn’t try tracking me down.”

“Assholes,” Daryl growled again, “Ain’t got shit, just a good story ‘bout this ‘Negan’ guy. The boogie man. If it’s forty guys _we_ can take ‘em out.”

“How do you plan on doing that?” Paul said.

“Wait for ‘em to show up at the Hilltop, kill’em all, then track them back to headquarters.”

“What makes you think you can find them if I couldn’t?” Paul said, unable to keep some of the exasperation out of his voice. It wasn’t lost on him that twenty-four hours ago this would have been his dream come true, a community full of fighters willing and able to take on the Saviors. But twenty-four hours ago he didn’t know what he had to lose. _I just got you back,_ he thought, _we aren’t going charging in guns a’blazing and maybe get killed._

“You can’t track for shit is why.”

“I’ve gotten a lot of practice. You may not have noticed, dearest, but the world’s changed—“

“Doubt it’s changed _that_ much—“

“Confrontation’s not something we’ve had a problem with,” Rick interrupted. Paul felt his cheeks heat, bickering in front of the in-laws _again._ Rick looked meditatively off to the side, “They’ll find this place eventually. These Saviors. Wouldn’t they?”

“Eventually, yeah,” Paul admitted, “I’m surprised they haven’t already.”

“They _did_ find us,” Daryl interrupted, “If Abe hadn’t found that RPG I woulda gotten killed.”

“Wait, you used a _rocket launcher_ on the dick brigade?” Paul said, unable to stop himself from turning around to stare at Daryl. He would have paid money to have seen that, and despite the nerves of meeting the parents part of him wanted to drag Daryl back upstairs. Daryl caught his look, the tips of his ears turned red and his fingers tapped nervously against his thigh. Three years of a very active sex life and Daryl could still be a little shy, looked like that hadn’t changed over their separation.

Maggie sounded a little awkward when she spoke, “They don’t know about us yet. Gives us an advantage. We’ve handled men like this before.”

“But we don’t know if it will come to that,” Carol said quietly. She’d barely spoken since Paul had started talking, and Paul wasn’t sure what to make of her, she seemed to be constantly shifting. Soccer mom underneath that stone cold badass, and underneath _that_ an exhausted woman barely holding it together. He couldn’t tell which if any of it was real.

Rick was quiet for a few long moments, “They found us once already. They’ll find us again eventually. We need to hit them first. That means finding out where they are. Daryl’s idea isn’t half bad. When’s the next drop-off?”

Paul thought about it, tried to remember how long he’d been gone. “It was today, I think. Or the day before. I was hoping to find something and head back, we _need_ supplies.”

“That truck we found today,” Daryl said, “Got a ton of shit in it, we can give some extra—“

“It wouldn’t be a gift,” Paul said, “Once the Saviors are gone we could pay it back and then some. We’ve started growing crops, raising livestock. Our communities can _help_ each other, all of our communities.”

Rick looked at Michonne, and she gave him a subtle nod. He turned back to Paul, “Ok. How far away is the Hilltop?”

“Not far,” Paul glanced at the fading afternoon light and frowned, “I don’t think we could make it there before dark if we left now. But if we set out early enough tomorrow we could be there and back by the end of the day.”

“And the Kingdom? If we wanted to go there next?” Rick asked.

Paul thought it over, “It would depend. Might need to stay a night there or at the Hilltop.” He thought about Daniel again and his heart sped up. He needed to tell Daryl before they got to the Kingdom, needed to tell him _long_ before. Get him used to the idea, fight it out.

Rick stared at him for a long time. Finally he nodded, as though he’d come to a decision about something. “Ok. Just want to ask you some things. Need you to answer honestly.”

“Of course,” Paul said.

“Rick, he don’t need—“

“How many walkers have you killed?” Rick interrupted.

Paul blinked; he hadn’t been expecting that question. But the tone of Sheriff Rick’s voice made it clear that this was an important one, so he gave it the thought it deserved. His mind drifted back to the first one: Quarantine. His cell mate Roland, whose death and turning had enabled him to escape. He’d shared a cell for weeks with the man and only gotten a few dozen words in all that time. When he did speak it wasn’t at Paul at all, just to the thin air. _I need to pick my grandkids up, they’re at school, I need to pick them up, they’re waiting for me…”_

The blur of them stretched onward from there, too numerous to count. “More than I’d like,” Paul settled for saying.

Rick seemed satisfied with that answer. “How many people have you killed?”

Paul swallowed. This one was easier, “Four.”

“ _Why_?”

Paul was hyperaware of Daryl beside him. Rick wanted honest answers and Paul resolved to give them to him, “They robbed me, and I thought they were going to kill me after. But that wasn’t why, not the main reason. It was because they threatened to kill my dog and because one of them found my picture of Daryl and tore it up. It was all I thought I had left of him.”

Whatever Rick’s thoughts on that were they didn’t show on his face. The same couldn’t be said of his wife and son; Michonne and Carl shifted and some wordless exchange passed between them. Rick seemed aware of it, glancing at them with a soft look on his face. He turned back to Paul. “Ok. Let’s do this. We’ll leave for the Hilltop tomorrow, check it out. Think of a plan.” then, “We’re glad to have you with us,” he glanced up to where Daryl was hovering and his eyes were soft, like they had been when he looked at Michonne and Carl, “Very glad. Welcome to the family.”

He sounded genuine, and Paul realized that he had been _approved_ so far. Perversely, Paul thought that was more nerve-wracking than the other way around would have been.  He’d said to Maggie that their world was about to get a whole lot bigger, and in a way it looked like Paul’s was as well. Back in Athens their world had consisted of the two of them and their dog, with the specter of Merle just offscreen. They were both friendly with their coworkers and Paul had his Chicago friends but neither of them had people they’d call _family._ Now one of them did.

************

Paul had played it cool during the meeting with everyone, voice detached and friendly when he spoke, blank and calm. But just like during the poker games they played before Paul’s lifetime ban Daryl could spot most of his tells, and knew his boyfriend was on the verge of bolting the entire interview. He was visibly relieved when Daryl suggested they take some food and a blanket with them and walk around Alexandria instead of eating dinner with everyone else.

The first place he asked to go was the infirmary so he could see for himself that Sasha was ok, which Daryl readily agreed to.Denise was there, someone must have told her about Paul because she looked beyond happy to meet him. She kept shooting looks at Daryl and grinning, and he remembered how she looked last night when he brought her the sodas for Tara.

“You can see Sasha for a few minutes,” she said, “She’s awake right now, but needs to rest. I keep telling her it’s a myth that you can’t sleep for a day after a concussion, I think I’ve finally managed to convince her.”

Sasha looked like five kinds of hell, which was still better than the seven kinds she’d looked earlier.

Paul shuffled nervously, “Um. Hello again.”

Sasha raised her eyebrows at him, “Hello.”

“I just wanted to say sorry again,” Paul said quickly, “So. Sorry. I’m sorry for knocking you in the head, and for holding a gun on you. I wasn’t going to use it.”

Sasha let out a long exhale then said, “Well. I’m sorry I pulled a gun on you too. And I was planning to use it, so I guess we’re even.” Her lips quirked into a smile.

Paul returned her smile with one of his own, Daryl could see that he liked Sasha already. “Where’s Abraham? Thought I’d say sorry to him too.”

Sasha’s smile slid off her face, “I sent him home. To his girlfriend,” before Daryl could think too hard about that odd remark Sasha continued, “So this the boyfriend you were telling me about? Back at the house?”

“Um. Yeah,” Paul said. He looked shy suddenly, “I gather you two already know each other.”

“We’ve met,” she replied, a ghost of her smile returning. Daryl thought about their time together on the prison council, her no-bullshit approach to everything. “I’m glad I missed when I shot at you.”

Paul smiled, “So am I.”

******

Daryl was surprised to feel a bit of… _pride_ as he showed off Alexandria to Paul.  He hadn’t thought much of the Alexandrians when they first arrived, or much of the place in general. It wasn’t like he’d done much to build the place either, they’d found it pretty much as is. He’d just defended it along with everyone else when the herd came and cleaned up the mess after. But as he walked through the neat streets as the setting sun turned the sky orange and saw people going about their business he felt glad to be a part of this place.Daryl remembered them walking Lou through their neighborhood in Athens and only taking Paul’s hand if they were alone and it was dark. Impulsively he reached out and grabbed Paul’s hand. The other man started but didn’t let go, not even when they got a few surprised looks from passing folks.

After the tour they spread the blanket downby the ornamental pond and settled down to eat. Before they left the house Daryl had grabbed some basics from their newly stocked pantry, curtesy of the truck he and Rick had found earlier. After they finished eating Paul stretched back onto his elbows, studying the lights flickering on in the nearby houses. Daryl settled down beside him and presented him with the bag of sour gummy worms he’d impulsively pocketed from the vending machine earlier.

“Where the fuck did you get these?” Paul said, eyes welling.

“Found ‘em earlier,” Daryl said, voice a little unsteady, “Out on the run where we found the truck. Made me think about you, but I don’t know why I kept ‘em.”

Paul scrubbed his face, “Sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I want to cry every five seconds.”

Daryl took his hand again, running his thumb along the tattoo on Paul’s ring finger, “I don’t mind, do what you gotta.”

Paul blinked rapidly but no tears came. After a while he gave a shaky smile and said, “If I eat these will you still kiss me after?”

“If you brush your teeth. You can use my toothbrush, finally found some toothpaste today.” It was all talk, right now Paul could eat a pile of shit and Daryl would kiss him after.

“Deal,” Paul smiled again, picking up on some of Daryl’s thoughts. He ripped open the bag and first thing he did was lick the sour sugar off one worm, something that normally would have made Daryl shudder with disgust. But at that moment everything Paul did was fascinating, Daryl couldn’t take his eyes off of him. He stared at him unabashedly, mind still trying to process not only that Paul was alive but in Alexandria, had spoken to the others.

As if reading Daryl’s mind again Paul whispered out, “Did they like me, do you think?”

Daryl blinked, thrown by how shy and vulnerable Paul sounded. Back in Athens Paul didn’t give a flying fuck if people didn’t like him, to see him this nervous was a head fuck. “Yeah. Carol even told me she did.” This wasn’t bullshit, she’d help him prepare their picnic dinner and he’d had a few minutes to talk to her alone, “Said a lot of things made sense.”

“She seems…intense,” Paul said slowly, “Almost as intense as Rick.”

“Carol’s tough as hell,” Daryl said proudly,“Rick too. Hell, all of ‘em are. We’ve had to be.”

“We have, yeah,” Paul said quietly. He was still staring out over Alexandria. Daryl followed his gaze, noticing that Aaron and Eric’s house had a single light on in the bedroom. He pointed to the house with a frown, “Aaron and Eric live there. I thought of taking you over to meet ‘em, but it looks like they’re already in bed.”

“Who are Aaron and Eric?”

“Last two gay men alive outside of you ’n me,” Daryl said. A shadow passed inexplicably over Paul’s face and he looked away.

“Why do you think they’ve turned in early?” he asked.

“I dunno,” Daryl felt a distant bite of shame, “I haven’t seen much of either ‘em since the Wolves came.” He’d mentioned the Wolves to Paul earlier, and forced himself to give more details. How they’d found them because of Aaron’s backpack, and how Aaron had barely looked at Daryl after “It was my fault.”

Paul stared at him, “ _How?”_

Daryl shifted, “Shoulda spotted something atthe cannery, that’s why Aaron brought me along.”

“Babe, I love you, but you can be so fucking dumb sometimes. Did it ever occur to you that this Aaron guy blames himself if it was his backpack?”

Daryl stared at him. It _hadn’t_ occurred to him, and he felt even dumber than Paul had just accused him of being. Of _course_ Aaron felt guilty, hell unlike Daryl he’d actually _known_ the people who had been killed by the Wolves. “Don’t explain why he ain’t said nothing to me,” Daryl protested.

Paul rolled his eyes, “I dunno, maybe he thinks you blame him too.”

“Of course I don’t!”

“You can be so fucking dumb sometimes,” Paul repeated, a wry expression on his face.

“Yeah,” Daryl agreed, “Don’t know why you put up with me.”

“You’re pretty easy to love. Easier than me.”

“Now who’s being fucking dumb?”

“You’ve got friends in the double digits.”

Daryl snorted, “They’re your friends too, now. I ain’t bullshittin’ about them liking you.”

“You’re biased. I understand why you didn’t want to come to Chicago with me. I mean, I did before, but I really _get_ it now.”

“And I get now why you were pissed at me,” Daryl replied.

Paul laughed, “Aren’t we a pair.”

Daryl’s heart twisted, he remembered saying something like that himself over the phone during what he’d thought of for over a year as their last conversation. “Hey Paul?” he whispered, “I love you.”

Paul blinked, “I love you too,” his eyes looked bright again, “I’m still not sure this isn’t a dream.”

“It ain’t,” Daryl said firmly, grabbing his hand and squeezing his fingers, “This is real, we’re here, and I ain’t gonna watch you go ever again.”

Paul laughed, “Well, I don’t plan on ever leaving you again, so that works.”

Daryl squeezed his fingers again, “We’re gonna take care of these asshole Saviors, after that no matter what it’s you ’n me.”

“Sounds good,” Paul said.

They didn’t talk much more after that, not until the sun sat and darkness settled over Alexandria. Finally Daryl suggested they head back to the Grimes house. “You didn’t get a chance to use the shower,” Daryl said, “There’s hot water.”

Paul stared at him. “You aren’t helping the whole ‘this must be a dream’ thing.”

************

The showers were roughly half the size of the trailer Paul had been living in at Hilltop, plenty big enough for two people. He didn’t truly believe Daryl about the hot water until the spray hit him. The shower head was roughly the size of a dinner plate and set directly above them, soaking them equally and immediately.

“Holy god,” Paul groaned, closing his eyes and leaning into it. Hot water pounded against him and for several moments Paul just stood there with his lips parted and eyes closed. Their water situation at Hilltop wasn’t bad, and Paul had been able to adapt to the basic conditions pretty quickly. He’d had a lifetime to prepare himself, after all. His spotty living conditions as a teen, washing up in the sink at the public library, all those camping trips with Daryl in the middle of nowhere. Adapting to going _without_ hadn’t made getting something any less pleasurable, however. The feel of hot water sliding all over his body and rinsing away layers of dirt and sweat and sex was fucking _erotic._

A feeling that increased when Daryl chuckled and Paul felt the other man’s arms slide around his waist, pulling him up against the warm wall of his muscled chest. Paul leaned into him and sighed, tilting his head back and resting it against Daryl’s shoulder. Daryl curled around him and Paul felt the scrape of whiskery stubble against his neck. Paul wanted to just stand there for at least two hours if not two weeks while the rest of the world just fucked off.

His eyes were still closed when Daryl shifted, uncoupling from him a little. Paul let out a wordless protest but it was only so Daryl could grab some soap before reassuming their previous position. Paul could smell a faint trace of lavender as Daryl sudsed him up with one hand while his other arm was wound around Paul’s waist, holding him close. Paul could feel his dick wedged up against the small of his back, swelling to full size and the skin hotter than the water pouring over them.

Daryl’s hands started wandering more than just could be justified for cleaning purposes, sliding up Paul’s sides and making him squirm a little at the tickling sensation. Paul heard him draw in a sharp breath, and Paul did it again, deliberately this time. He was rewarded with those rough hands moving all over him, hips and sides and chest. Thumbs rubbing against his nipples.

Paul groaned out and reached behind him, cupping the back of Daryl’s skull and tilting his head back so they could kiss. Paul started sliding his free hand down so he could take his own dick in hand but before he could even touch himself Daryl grabbed his wrist. Paul dug his teeth into the other man’s lip in retaliation but Daryl’s grip just tightened.

They broke away enough for Paul to gasp out, “Asshole,” but Daryl swallowed any other curses he felt like giving with more kisses. Paul started grinding back against him more frantically. Daryl growled, a feral noise that made Paul arch back against him. He was suddenly desperate to be fucked, wanted to feel Daryl inside him, as close to him as he could possibly be. Given how Daryl was thrusting against him Paul thought he wanted it that way too, and he almost suggested it despite lack of supplies. But he knew better; stuff that worked in porn didn’t work in real life and besides which he hadn’t been fucked in over a year, he was out of practice.

 _We should probably take this to the bedroom,_ was another brief thought that he ignored. They was no way they could get to Daryl’s attic bedroom from the second floor shower without traumatizing the Grimes family.

That line of thought was abruptly cut off when Daryl let out a noise of animal frustration before spinning Paul around then shoving him against the wall of the shower. He dropped down to his knees, feet skidding on the slippery floor.

“Fuck, are you ok?” Paul gasped out.

“What’s it look like?” Daryl said irritably. What it _looked_ like was that his almost fall hadn’t phased him in the slightest, his fingers were digging into Paul’s hips and jerking him forward, mouthing his thighs.

“Well forgive me for worrying about you slipping and breaking your hip or something—“

“Ain’t _that_ old,” Daryl snapped before lunging forward and just swallowing him all the way down.

Any smart remarks Paul felt like making were drowned out in a loud groan He groped one hand out blindly, fingers closing around the shower’s grab bar and holding on for dear life. After a few minutes of bliss Daryl pulled off him, still working Paul with his hands. “I missed this,” he grumbled out in a voice that sounded thick and almost drugged, “Not as much as I missed _you_ , but I missed it…”

Paul had a split second’s flash of guilt that was blasted away from his thoughts like it hit by a tornado when Daryl took him back in his mouth. The entire rest of the world and everything that had happened in the past year and a half ceased to exist; Paul’s world was narrowed down to the confines of this absurdly huge shower. Daryl kneeling at his feet, sucking him hungrily, eyes closed and wet hair plastered against his cheeks.

That flash of guilt didn’t find its way back to him until later in the night. They finished their shower, toweled each other off in a dreamy daze, pulled on enough clothes to be decent if they were caught on the way to Daryl’s room. Clothes that were unceremoniously discarded as soon as the door to Daryl’s bedroom closed. They got into bed skin to skin, and Daryl was asleep almost immediately. Paul was just as wiped out and closed his eyes, expecting sleep to hit him just as suddenly. Instead he had a flash of memory from a lifetime ago. Nick calling from Chicago, listening to Paul gush about his new boyfriend and ending the conversation with a warning. _Tell him, or he’ll wonder why you didn’t._

Paul’s eyes snapped open, his feeling of drowsy peace vanishing. _Fuck._

They were in their usual sleeping positions, Daryl stretched out on his back and Paul sprawled all over him, cheek against the other man’s chest. He could feel the other man’s heartbeat, hear his soft snores.

_Wake up Daryl! Just so you know I kinda slept with this guy at the Kingdom place I was telling you about earlier. More than once._

Shit. Paul squeezed his eyes shut and wondered when would be the right time to drop that bombshell. He didn’t need to ask Daryl to know that there hadn’t been anyone else for him. Not that it would have mattered to Paul, shit happened. But he knew it would matter a whole fucking lot to Daryl, and this small, scared part of himself cringed back from the idea of confession.

 _I’ll tell him later,_ Paul promised himself. _Tomorrow. He won’t like it but he’ll understand._

Sleep was still a long time coming.


	25. Daryl & Paul: Part III

When Daryl woke up with Paul in his arms he needed to take a few minutes to gather himself after the initial rush of gratitude. He stared at the ceiling as the light gradually increased and tried not to cry. _He’s alive,_ Daryl thought. This wasn’t a dream, no dream had been able to recapture the exact weight of Paul’s head against his shoulder, or the exact smell of his hair, or the exact sound of the not-quite-snores Paul made when he was sound asleep.  Or just exactly how dang hot it was to wake up with a living furnace wrapped around him. At that thought Daryl smiled and tightened his arms around Paul.

As Daryl lay in bed and stroked Paul’s back he found his thoughts drifting back to their first morning together. It was the only experience that was even vaguely like what he was currently feeling. The shock when he woke up with a naked man curled around him; not just any naked man but _Paul._ Paul who he loved with all he had, who said he loved Daryl back. Paul who was so good-looking Daryl sometimes thought he must have dreamed him up after furtively looking at underwear ads in the paper. _That_ Paul, and  Daryl could _touch_ him. Touch him wherever he wanted. Cup his face and stroke his rough beard. Slide his fingers through hair, tuck behind it behind Paul’s ear. Run a hand down Paul’s back, feel the nobs of his spine. Dig his fingers into the muscle of his butt and thighs. Rub his face against the dark hair that fanned over his belly, breath in the scent of him. He had no idea how starved he’d been for touch until he woke up that morning.

Paul mumbled something into his shoulder, pulling Daryl out of this reverie. “Paul? You awake?”

Paul stiffened in his arms then let out a deep sigh, the breath hot against Daryl’s shoulder. “I’d better be,” he said in a sleep-thick voice. He lifted his head up off Daryl’s shoulder and stared him in the face, blinking the sleep from his eyes. “Not a dream?” he whispered.

Daryl didn’t answer with words, just pulled him down for a kiss. Both of them had rank morning breath, both were sticky and sweaty after a night curled around each other, and Daryl couldn’t give a single shit. Neither could Paul, the other man’s normal finickiness was nowhere to be found and he returned the kiss with equal enthusiasm. 

Before things could heat up too much there was a knock on the attic door. “Daryl? Jesus?” Rick’s voice. Shit. They were going to the Hilltop today “bright and early”, as Rick had said. Couldn’t Michonne’ve done something to keep Rick in bed a few hours longer? Hell, maybe they could just wait another day or two, Daryl didn’t want to leave the bed for any reason whatsoever.

 _They shot our dog and tried to shoot Paul. They’ll find this place eventually,_ he reminded himself, _try to pull the same shit._

“Fuck,” Daryl groaned as he broke away from Paul’s arms. “We’re up, we’ll be right out.”

************

“Wow,” Paul said when Rick opened the back of the truck. It was just the two of them; everyone else was getting ready for the trip. Paul had been watching Daryl inspect the engine of the massive RV they’d be taking when Rick pulled Paul him aside “to go over some things first.” One of them being the supplies in the truck he and Daryl had found the day before yesterday. 

“Olivia didn’t get a chance to inventory everything yet,” Rick said, “There’s food, soap, rubbing alcohol…”

“Well, we’re good on food for right now, even if we can always use more,” Paul said, climbing into the truck, “You found this at a sorghum plant?” Paul wondered who had brought the truck there, and why. There was a fine coat of dust on the plastic that wrapped the crates of canned food. He supposed it didn’t matter, the world was full of abandoned tableaus that made varying degrees of sense. “Anything medical, we need it.”

“So do we,” Rick replied, “Take a look, we’ll work out how much we can spare, what you can give us in return.”

Paul explored the content of the truck, mentally picking out items that the Hilltop needed. “Food, mostly,” Paul opened a box to find it full of ramen noodles, “Better food than this. More importantly seed to grow your own. Tools to help grow it; we’ve got a blacksmith and a couple apprentices. Made my knives.”

“That’s useful,” Rick agreed.

“Earl’s a good guy,” Paul continued, “he’d be happy to train up any of your people that wanted to learn, get a forge of your own set up here. Our communities can help each other, not just by trade.” He looked over his shoulder to where Rick was leaning into the bed of the truck..

“If we can deal with these Saviors first,” Rick said.

“Yeah, well there is that unfortunately,” Paul replied. He headed back toward Rick and jumped down from the back of the truck. “There’s crate of bandages, toothpaste, a few packages of diapers…any of that kind of stuff we need more than food right now.”

“I’ll get Olivia to take a look, have her work out what we can spare. Won’t take long to get it loaded up.” He produced a map that had been tucked in the pocket of his jacket and spread it out in the back of the truck. “Show me where your community is.” Paul pointed, and Rick circled it with a stub of pencil. “Where are the drop-offs?”

“They change every month,” Paul said, “We make the drop-off, they take our stuff and give us the next meeting point. May I?” He gestured at the pencil in Rick’s hand, and the other man handed it over. Paul frowned, chewing on his lip and started marking points on the map with little x’s. After about four of them he shook his head, “These are the only four I know of. The others took place while I was gone.”

“We’ll talk to your people then, see if we can get a good idea to start looking for their base. Ask the folks from this ‘Kingdom’ place too, there’s only so much ground they can cover between your two communities.”

Paul could have sworn he showed no reaction to the casual mention of the Kingdom but Rick _still_ narrowed those chilly gunslinger’s eyes of his. “Look, if you’re holding something back then it won’t end well for you.”

 _Ah,_ Paul thought, ignoring guilt pricking the back of his neck. The shovel talk. He’d been wondering when Rick would get around to it, there was no other reason to drag him off alone. “I’m not holding anything back,” he said, the lie tasting bitter in his mouth. _Nothing that’s any of your business._ Guilty feelings or no it was irritating to get a shovel talk from the “family” of a man he’d been practically married to—quite happily, thank you very much—for three years. “I’ve told you all I know about the Saviors.”

“Anything _else_? Anything _Daryl_ needs to know?”

“Michonne’s not the mother of your kids, so I’m guessing you guys got married After. Anything _you’re_ holding back from _her?”_ Paul snapped. It was a shot in the dark, the two of them seemed pretty in tune in the brief interactions Paul had observed.  But every couple had secrets and that comment hit the mark because Rick paled and went still. Paul continued, “He’s _my_ p—“ Paul  stopped himself, realizing he almost said “partner”. Better than “boyfriend”, after all. But the world ended almost two years ago and fuck what anyone thought. “He’s _my_ husband. Some stuff’s just between the two of us.”

 _Fuck, now I’ve done,_ Paul thought when he got that chilly gunslinger’s stare from Rick Grimes again. But after a beat Rick lowered his eyes and looked a little chastened. “Fair enough,” he said. He drummed his fingers against the map, and his face returned to a business-like expression. “Do you think the Saviors will show up?”

Paul took in a breath. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of Rick Grimes, but he got the feeling he’d earned a bit more respect or approval from him. It was far more terrifying than the man’s dislike would have been. He shoved those thoughts aside and shook his head, “No, they make us come to them.”

“Don’t have anyone watching your place, making sure you’re not hiding anything?”

“I’ve never found a trace of that, and I’ve looked,” Paul answered, “Despite what my other half says I _can_ track for shit.”

“But you’re gone a lot of the time, right? Doesn’t need to be a constant guard, could just be someone stopping by every now and again. Sitting in a tree with some binoculars.”

“I know, I’ve thought of that,” Paul said, “Nothing we can do about it except keep our eyes open.”

“We’ll do that,” Rick said, folding up the map and returning it to his jacket pocket. He clapped Paul on the shoulder and said, “Come on, let’s see how far along everyone is. I want to move out in the next hour.”

************

When Rick pulled Paul aside to talk about some things Daryl was torn between protectiveness and resentment. He _knew_ Rick could be suspicious but he thought it was unfair. Thought Rick would have given a stranger they picked up by the side of the road more of the benefit of the doubt.

“Don’t read too much into it,” Carol said, when he muttered something about to her. She wasn’t coming on this trip—she and Sasha would be the ones looking after Alexandria—but she’d come to see the group off.

Daryl frowned, “You ok?” She’d sounded distant and distracted. He’d had a lot on his mind lately, and it just now hit him that _something_ was eating at her. Had been since the Wolves attacked, maybe even before. 

She gave him a bright smile, one that morphed into something sad and tired when she saw the disbelieving look on his face, “I’m ok.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she said, then took a step forward and hugged him, “Be safe. Don’t go looking for trouble.”

“Ain’t gotta be looking for it to still find you,” he grumbled, unable to hug her back on account of his greasy hands.

“I know,” she sighed.

She left him and he tried to focus on his engine work, vaguely aware of people moving around him, loading up the RV with gas and weapons. In the end they decided to bring enough people so they’d be ready for a fight but not so many they’d feel confident _looking_ for one.

Not long after Carol left Denise materialized by his side, offering him what looked like dog vomit wrapped in saran wrap.She said it was some type of oat cake, rattling off all sorts of healthy shit that was in it. He made a mental note to keep her far the fuck away from Paul, he didn’t need _two_ people nagging him over what he ate. When he asked why she cared her voice went soft, “You just. You remind me of someone I used to know.”

He finished his inspection of the RV’s engine not long after she left, slamming the hood down and wiping his hands clean. Rick and Paul still hadn’t come back yet, and fidgeted as he debated what to do about that. He had just made up his mind to go look for them when he saw Aaron approach the RV, a backpack slung over one shoulder. He was pale and had a few days’ worth of stubble on his cheeks and dark circles under his eyes. He looked, to be blunt, like shit.

 _You can be so fucking dumb sometimes,_ Paul’s voice chimed up in the back of his head.

“Hey,” Daryl said, fighting to keep from dropping his eyes, “I ain’t seen you around much.”

Aaron shrugged. “Not much around for me to do, since Rick stopped recruiting people.”

Daryl had to fight to keep from dropping his eyes again. “Well, that’s changin’ right now.”

“So I heard,” Aaron said slowly, “I talked to Maggie. She said you found someone.” His eyebrows were raised in an unasked question.

Daryl felt his face flush, not with embarrassment, but with a rush of happiness that was too intense to put into words. He nodded, then whispered, “He was here all this time. Less’n forty miles away.” Daryl wondered suddenly if he and Aaron had ever gotten close to running into Paul on their sole recruiting trip. 

“Wow,” Aaron said softly, “Does ‘he’ have a name?”

As if Aaron’s words summoned Daryl saw that Rick and Paul were returning from discussing whatever it was that was so dang urgent. He couldn’t tell what mood either of them were in, not even when Rick clapped Paul on the shoulder and went to talk to Michonne and Carl, nodding at Daryl as he passed.

“Daryl?” Paul said, looking at Aaron curiously, “Rick says he wants to be ready to leave in about an hour.”

Daryl felt his face flush again, and he was pretty sure it was with embarrassment this time. Of course—even after only the most cursory of washing up this morning—Paul looked beautiful. Too beautiful to be with a guy like Daryl. The other man used to take Daryl’s breath away every now and then, just the light hitting him the right way or Daryl in the right mood. That was before he spent almost two years thinking he was dead, now Paul may as well be radiating light like damned halo all around him.

“Um. This is Paul,” Daryl said, feeling his cheeks heat up. “Paul, this is Aaron. I was telling you about him.”

Paul’s face lit up, and he stretched out his hand with a grin, “Hi. Some folks call me Jesus, but you know. Whichever you prefer.”

“I’m gonna lose my mind if’n you keep callin’ yourself ‘Jesus,’” Daryl muttered.

“You started it,” Paul said in a sing-song voice. He looked around at the people milling around the RV and asked, “Where’s your other half?”

“Eric’s ankle still isn’t healed, I thought I’d let him rest,” there was an evasiveness to his voice, and Daryl exchanged a glance with Paul.“I want to come too,” Aaron said before Daryl could puzzle over what it could mean.

Daryl exchanged another quick glance with Paul, making the other man turn to Aaron and say, “I’ll talk to Rick. There should be plenty of room for one more.” He nodded at Daryl and moved to the back of the RV where Rick was standing next to Michonne, discussing something in low voices.

Daryl turned back to Aaron and took a deep breath, “Eric’s ok with that?” Daryl asked.

Aaron’s flinch was barely perceptible, and he admitted, “He wasn’t happy at first. But he’s fine now.”

Daryl remembered Paul’s words again. _You can be so fucking dumb sometimes._ “Them Wolves showin’ up,” he said hesitantly, “That ain’t on you. You know that, right? You got nothing to make up for.”

“It is on me,” Aaron insisted quietly, “But that’s not why I’m coming along. This is what I _did;_ I was the recruiter for this place long before your group showed up.”

Daryl couldn’t argue with that, much as he’d like to. “Ok.”

There was a flicker of a smile on Aaron’s face, “Besides, I want to get to know your boyfriend. Eric’s begging me for gossip. When we get back he said we all have to have dinner. ‘Last four gay men on a world need to double date’ in his words.”

 _Double date._ Daryl almost burst out laughing, it was such a mundane, cutesy phrase. But it made him happy despite that; there was never anyone in their lives before he’d felt comfortable enough to go out as a couples’ thing. _Especially_ if the other couple were two gay guys. Daryl knew he was being a dick but he had a hard time not thinking about Paul _hooking up_ with his friend and his friend’s _boyfriend._ But with Aaron that thought was so ridiculous it made Daryl want to laugh at his jealous past self. “I’d like that,” Daryl said, “ _We’d_ like that.”

************

The drive to the Hilltop was nerve-wracking.

Rick drove with Michonne riding shotgun. Despite everything the two of them both seemed to have their attention taken up by the other. They periodically would reach out to touch hands or the other’s knee. Paul, who was right behind Rick, could see Michonne’s sweet smiles whenever Rick brushed his hand against hers. It was a pleasingly contrasting look on her warrior’s face. He couldn’t see _Rick’s_ face but their was something equally sweet about that grizzled gunslinger acting so smitten. Rick and Michonne weren’t the  source of his nerves.

First source would have to be the glares he was getting from Abraham, formerly known as Beefcake. Paul wondered if he thought he was being subtle. At least Daryl didn’t seem to notice; he had a protective streak, one he usually knew better to indulge in unless it was shit like “you must learn how to shoot this gun in case my brother decides to send his cracker buddies to kill us.” Thankfully Daryl was slouched low on the RV’s bench with his back to where Abraham was seated at the RV’s dining table. His apparent girlfriend—who was surprisingly _not_ Sasha but instead a perfectly lovely young woman named Rosita—sat across from him. She at least was paying attention to something other than Paul, which was studying Rick’s map. Paul liked her; she seemed tough and didn’t take shit. And from his admittedly less-than-expert opinion she was a gorgeous, not just pretty but sexy. The kind of woman straight guys jizzed their pants over.

But Sasha had been the one Abraham had stared longingly at when she came to say goodbye. She shook Paul’s hand and flashed Abraham a peace sign before making her way back to the infirmary. Something was going on there, some hetero nonsense Paul wanted no part of.

The _next_ source of nerves was sitting right across from them. Maggie and Glenn were curled up next to each other with Aaron stretched on Maggie’s other side. Three faces staring at Paul in open curiosity. Maggie seemed to have softened a bit toward him, lips curved into a smile.

“So,” Maggie said after a few hours on the road and they’d ran out of things to discuss in terms of _business—_ the Hilltop’s resources, the Saviors, and everything else, “how’d the two of you meet?"

“I found him on the side of the road half dead. He told me I had pretty eyes and called me Jesus,” Paul replied.

“You are such a fucking dick,” Daryl muttered. His cheeks were a little red and he looked nervous and embarrassed.

“Smooth,” Glenn said.

“Tell ‘im how _you_ two met,” Daryl muttered.

“She came charging out of the woods on a horse like Zorro and killed a walker with a baseball bat,” Glenn said, beaming with pride at his wife.

“How you got together, then,” Daryl continued, “Weren’t it something to do with raiding a pharmacy—“

“Jesus doesn’t want to know about _that_ ,” Maggie interrupted.

“Jesus _does_ want to know about that,” Paul said quickly, not just to get the attention off of himself but because fuck, the two of them were adorable. He noticed that Glenn kept one hand resting lightly and protectively over Maggie’s abdomen. Their child was going to be stupidly beautiful.

“ _Aaron_ wants to know about that too,” Aaron added, staring at Maggie with amusement.

“Didn’t she smash a bunch of eggs over yer head at one point?” Daryl said, “Then there was the time—“

“Why was he half dead on the side of the road?” Glenn blurted out.

“He was in a motorcycle accident,” Paul said, taking pity on Glenn, “Hit and run.” Paul wondered for the first time what had happened to Denny St. George, the piece of trash who nearly killed Daryl almost six years ago. He was probably dead, and Paul refused to feel guilty for being glad about that fact. “Called an ambulance and the pigs—“ Paul shot a nervous glance toward where Rick was steering the massive RV, but thankfully he was too busy holding hands with Michonne to notice, “Called the cops. Was able to track down the little turd.”

Beside him Daryl shifted in his seat. “Wasn’t a big deal,” he muttered, as though Paul hadn’t had to watch him nearly die that day, “We wouldn’t’ve met otherwise.”

“How do you know we weren’t fated to meet in ways that _didn’t_ involve near death experiences?” Paul teased.

“Cause that’s a load of shit—“

“It happened with me and Eric,” Aaron interrupted, a smile tugging at his lips, “We went to the same college, but never ran into each other. We talked about it later, we’d been at a lot of the same parties, events…kept almost running into each other. We didn’t meet until we both started working for the same relief organization years after we graduated.”

Paul laughed, “See? We would’ve met eventually. Maybe even after the end of the world.”

Daryl _squirmed_ , “Probably would’ve pulled a gun on you if I met your smart ass in all this.”

“You wouldn’t have pulled the trigger, though,” Paul said smugly, “Because of my _pretty eyes—“_

Before Daryl or Aaron could respond Rick slammed on the brakes, jolting them in their seats.

“Yo, Rick!” Daryl called out, “What’s going on?”

“Crash up ahead,” he said tightly, and brought the RV to a complete stop.“Looks like it happened not too long ago.”

Paul stood up and looked out the windshield. His heart froze when he saw the wreck and recognized the car even flipped over on its side, a battered old Dodge that he sometimes used himself for short runs. _What the fuck,_ he thought frantically, _who the fuck is going out_ now? “It’s one of ours. The Hilltop’s.”

******

There was a splatter of blood and bits of walker flesh scattered across the road. Another walker was crushed up in the undercarriage, reaching out for them and snarling. Daryl bent down to study the blood, laid a hand against the metal of the undercarriage. “Engine’s cool, most of the blood’s dried up. Happened at least a day ago, maybe more.”

“Fuck,” Paul said, looking around frantically, “We don’t…whoever this was, we don’t have a lot of fighters.” _A day ago,_ he thought. He mentally went over the route to Hilltop, estimating the distance. If he had been the one to crash here he thought he’d make it back to the Hilltop in a matter of hours. Providing he was alone and unhurt. His heart sank, he knew he was the only person who went on runs alone, a group of at least three went out. He trotted to the front of the car and peered through the windshield.

“There’s a trail,” Daryl said, “Headed toward that office building.” He gave Paul a long look, “Your people, do you reckon they could last a night out here by themselves?”

“I hope so,” Paul said, “Let’s find out.”

************

“You could have been killed, and we would have been out of a doctor,” Paul muttered to the man he’d introduced to the group as _Doctor_ Harlan Carson. They’d found him and two other people from the Hilltop huddled in the office building. They’d been there since the previous afternoon, trying to wait out the dead. One of them, a middle-aged man Paul introduced as Freddie, had been injured in the crash but not seriously. All three of them were dehydrated and dirty and _deeply_ grateful for the rescue.

“You’re one to talk, Jesus,” Carson said, unrepentant. He was digging through his bag, examining his haul of medical supplies, “I’ve patched you up enough times after a run to know you’re not exactly _cautious—“_

“You should have waited for me to get back,” Paul interrupted.

“We weren’t expecting you for another couple of days,” Carson said absently. “Didn’t expect you to be bringing _company_ either.” He glanced at Daryl as he said this. When Paul had introduced them Carson had done a double take and blurted out that he’d recognized Daryl “from the picture.” From the way he and Paul talked Daryl realized this was as close as his boyfriend had to a friend, and he was glad they’d been able to rescue him.

 _“_ It was only one night surrounded by walkers,” said Bertie, the third member of the scavenging party, “We’re _fine,_ Jesus.” Despite her words her voice shook a little, “Well, thanks to your friends at least.”

“Yes, thank _you,”_ Carson said, looking at Glenn. The kid had been the one to find the Doc when they’d split up to hunt for survivors and apparently done some heroic shit.

Glenn looked flustered at the praise; the kid never could seem to take credit for the badass shit he did. After a few beats he looked at where Carson was examining his haul of medicine and awkwardly asked, “Got any…prenatal vitamins in there?”

Carson glanced at Maggie and beamed, “You?”

Maggie gave a shy, pleased smile and nodded, “Jesus said you were an obstetrician.”

“That I am,” Carson said proudly, “You two just hit the jackpot.”

******

A few hours after finding the group of Hilltoppers the RV got stuck. Rick shifted gears and pushed the gas pedal only for the tires to spin uselessly. “A storm must’ve come through,” Rick said, irritated. 

“It’s alright, we’re here,” Paul said. He shot a glance at Daryl that was almost shy. “That’s us. That’s the Hilltop.”

The whole group unloaded from the RV, and Daryl got his first look at the Hilltop. Which wasn’t particularly impressive, he could only see the top part of a red-bricked house over the communities massive walls. As they walked toward the house Paul explained they could see for miles around from the top floor.

They were a few yards away from the main gate when a voice called out, “Drop your weapons!” from the tops of the walls. Of course there would be a guard there. Instantly everyone in the group raised their guns and Daryl found himself instinctively stepping in front of Paul, something that earned him a glare that he ignored.

“I told you, we ran out of ammo a while ago,” Paul hissed at him, “They’ve just got spears.”

“Spears can do plenty of damage,” Rick said, overhearing. Daryl was inclined to agree; he was tense and on edge. He reminded himself that these were Paul’s people, and it wouldn’t do to start mowing them down.

“They’re just bored, these guys have nothing to do all day,” Paul raised his voice on the last few words, loud enough for the guards to hear him. Then he stepped around Daryl with a hand raised, “Whoa! Kal, they’re with me! Open the gates!”

“What the hell’s this, Jesus? Who are these people? Where are Ethan and Craig?”

Paul looked confused, darting a glance back at the three Hilltop survivors they’d found, “Did Ethan or Craig come with you guys?”

Carson shook his head, “No, just the three of us.” He looked unsettled, “Ethan and Craig…I think they were part of the group who was going to do the drop-off this month.”

As Daryl watched Paul went pale. “Something went wrong,” then, to the guard, “These people aren’t with the Saviors, they’re friends. Freddy’s hurt, open the gates!”

“Tell them to leave their weapons!” Kal shouted. Daryl could see a glimpse of him, holding his spear like a douchebag and hollering over the tops of the gate.

“Why should we? Who the fuck are _you?”_ Daryl called out, at the end of his patience. He’d probably get the iceberg treatment from Paul later but fuck this guy.

Before the argument could continue Daryl heard barking coming from the other side of the gate. The guard, Kal, twisted his head around to look down at gate. Daryl barely registered the gesture, he was caught in a visceral flashback of the night where everything started. Lou barking in a way Daryl had never heard before, hurling herself at the privacy fence like she was possessed. Their sweet girl who hardly ever barked, only when she was happy about something. The way she sounded now.

Daryl slowly lowered his rifle and stepped forward, forgetting all about the douchebag guards and whoever these Ethan and Craig guys were. “Lou?” he called out, “That you, girl?”

The barks stopped for a split second, and when they began again they were even louder.

“Open the gates, Kal!” Paul said for the third time. Whether it was the excited dog or Paul’s tone that got through to him Kal finally did as he was told.

The gates slowly opened, and as soon as they were open wide enough for her to squeeze out Lou was barreling through them. She saw Paul and jumped up to lick his face, then dropped down to race around him in circles before leaping up to lick him again. If she’d heard Daryl’s voice a few minutes ago she’d clearly forgotten about him after seeing Paul again. Typical, but he couldn’t say as he blamed her. Paul pushed her back playfully and pointed at Daryl, “Lou look, who’s that? Who’s that?”

She stopped her friendly assault on Paul, stumbling a little. She looked at Daryl and froze, cocking her ears back and forth. Daryl’s heart jerked; he hadn’t realized as she was running out that she was missing one of her front legs. There was nothing but a nub covered in a mass of scar tissue. _They shot Lou, she nearly died._ That was all Paul said about it, and that Doctor Carson had been able to patch her up. He hadn’t said that those assholes had shot her poor _leg_ off. Not for the first time he wished the Dick Brigade were alive so he could kill them all over again.

It wasn’t a feeling that lasted, it was impossible to look at that big doggie grin and feel anger. Daryl whistled, and her tail started to wag, slowly at first before becoming a blur. Then galloped over to him, leaping up and placing her one paw against his chest before doing her best to lick his face off. “Hey girl,” Daryl said, surprised to find his voice hoarse and thick. She was whining, a high-pitched, nonstop noise and was trying to climb up into his arms. He dropped into a crouch to give her better access and almost ended up on his ass with her enthusiastic jumping. “Hey girl,” he said again. He sounded like an idiot but he couldn’t get any other words out. She kept whining, wiggling in his arms like she was going to explode. Then, like she couldn’t contain herself she jumped away from him and raced back to Paul, leaping straight up and licking his face before hurling back to Daryl and head butting him. It startled a laugh out of him, and that laugh was followed instantly with hot tears pricking at his eyes. She ran around him in a few circles before tacking him again, licking his face and neck and hands, whimpering the whole time.

He wrapped his arms around her and tried to hold her still, but she was a chaotic ball of squirming muscle and limbs. After a few minutes he was able to gently push her off and calm her down. She didn’t relax so much as flop down in exhaustion, sides heaving and mouth wide open. She rolled over onto her back and stretched out, offering up her belly. Her tongue was hanging out of her mouth and her lips were flapped open. She looked ridiculous. “Silly dog,” Daryl said, voice still a little shaky, and rubbed her belly while she squirmed with delight.

Someone cleared their throat and Daryl snapped his head up. He saw that everyone was beaming at him, and he was reminded of the day when he held baby Judy for the first time, after he’d gone out to get her formula. He thought of the missing faces, of Beth and Hershel and T-Dog and wished again that they could have lived to see this. Wished he could have introduced them to Paul. He reminded himself to think about the living instead of the dead and got shakily to his feet. Lou flipped herself rightsize up and lay in the grass panting and blowing.

Then he remembered where he was and what he was doing, that they could be in _danger._ “Sorry,” he rasped out. Everyone was _still_ beaming at him, including Paul. “Come on,” Daryl said, “Let’s go see what’s going on.”

************

Paul had almost forgotten Kal’s comments about Ethan and Craig, and the sense of foreboding he’d gotten. It was hard to think about things like that as he strolled into the Hilltop side by side with Daryl—not holding hands, but close enough that their arms would brush together. Lou was at their feet dancing around them, tongue lolling out and tail a blur.

He remembered the shy pride Daryl had shown off Alexandria, Paul imagined it was something close to what he was feeling now as Daryl and the rest of his “family” looked around at Hilltop. Paul knew he couldn’t take credit for it and wasn’t really a part of it, but he still wanted Daryl to be impressed. And there were things to be impressed by; Hilltop might not have all of Alexandria’s fancy amenities but they were building something. Something that could be sustainable once the Saviors were taken care of. He watched as the group studied the crops growing, the pens of livestock they were slowly starting to raise, the forge.

Paul was so busy paying attention to all that he was startled out of his skin when Eduardo charged up to him. The other man almost got shot for his troubles, Daryl saw him move in and jerked his rifle up, the rest of the group following suit.

“ _Whoah,”_ Paul said, stepping in front of Eduardo and raising his hands, “It’s cool, he’s one of us.”

“Who are these people?” Eduardo asked, “Are they with the Saviors?”

“No, they’re friends,” Paul said, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice. “Where’s Gregory?”

Eduardo stared at him, blinking. Then he said, “Gregory is dead. Ethan killed him.”

Paul stared back at him, unable to speak. He knew the words Eduardo had just said were in English and he understood every one of them, his brain just couldn’t process them all together.

“What do you mean, Gregory’s dead?” Harlan asked.

“I mean he’s dead,” Eduardo said flatly.

“When?” Paul asked, finding his voice, “How?”

“A group went out to the drop-off, the Saviors said we were light,” Eduardo explained, “They killed Tim and Marsha right then, took Craig and told Ethan if he wanted his brother back to bring them Gregory’s head.”

Paul felt sick; no matter how much he disliked Gregory no one deserved that. Eduardo wasn’t finished, “He stabbed Gregory a couple times before we could stop him. He…we couldn’t stop the bleeding, so Gregory died a few hours later.”

When Paul looked at Harlan the other man looked just as sick as Paul was feeling. Of course they couldn’t stop the bleeding and their doctor was trapped all night by roamers. If they’d left a day earlier…

“Who’s in charge here now?” Rick asked, voice in full sheriff mode now.

Eduardo stared at him, “I…no one.”

Paul looked around him, they were drawing in a crowd, and he really _saw_ people for the first time. They weren’t just staring at the group he’d brought in with curiosity, but outright terror. People were still working, tending to the crops but there were fewer of them than there should be.

“No one?” Michonne asked, voice incredulous. “Did you send anyone out to look for your people? Where’s this Ethan?”

“He…he took Gregory’s head and went to meet with the Saviors, try and get Craig back.”

“He cut off your leader’s head and you just watched him _go_?” Rick said.

“Not much point in stopping him,” Eduardo said defensively, “Gregory was already dead. We might be able to get Craig back now.”

“Or you just showed these Saviors you’ll roll over and do anything they ask,” Rick said.

“Who the hell are _you,_ man?”

“Whatever happened it’s done now,” Michonne interrupted.

“She’s right,” Maggie said, “Now we just need to figure out what to do next.”

************

“Gregory’s not the leader I’d have chosen,” Paul said, staring out the window, “But he was popular, the people trusted him…I could never imagine anyone else in charge.”

They were in what had once been Gregory’s office, just the group from Alexandria and Paul. The rest of the Hilltop had gone back to their work like obedient sheep. They weren’t quite as soft at the Alexandria folks had been at first but they were pretty darn close, and like sheep were useless without someone leading the way.

“Why aren’t _you_ in charge, Jesus?” Maggie asked him.

That was a question Daryl didn’t need to ask even if it occurred to him. He already knew the answer, and Paul predictably looked like he wanted to jump out a window at the suggestion, “No, that’s not me. I’m not a leader, I’m not…” he shook his head, “it wouldn’t work.”

 _He don’t like getting attached to things,_ Daryl wanted to explain, _likes being able to leave ‘em behind if he needs to._ His heart ached for his boyfriend then. “Don’t really matter,” Daryl said, “What matters is what we do now. What difference does it make if this Gregory guy ain’t here? Plan stays the same, we find these people, take ‘em out, trade with the Hilltop for food.”

“Daryl’s right,” Rick said, “We don’t negotiate. We find them and kill them all.”

“How?” Paul asked.

“We look,” Rick replied.

“What about this Kingdom place?” Glenn asked, “How far away is it? Maybe someone there knows where we can start looking.”

“About the same distance from here to Alexandria,” Paul said, then shot Daryl an odd look and fidgeted with his thumbs. “They’ve got the numbers, and they _can_ fight, but Ezekiel…he’s not interested.”

“We don’t need them assholes, we can take these Saviors out by themselves,” Daryl insisted.

“The more the better, though,” Michonne said, “You think this Ezekiel would be willing to help?”

Paul shot Daryl that odd look again, “I think…I think if he had allies willing to fight with, he’d consider it. They’re not cowards.”

“All right then,” Rick said, “We go to the Kingdom, see if we can build up the numbers,” he glanced out the window at the fading light, “It’s late. We start in the morning.”

******

They spent another hour or two jawing about the plan before splitting up for the night. Most of the group had found space in the big house but Paul told Daryl he had a trailer to himself. On there way out they stopped to pick up Lou, who had been entertaining a small group of children outside while they discussed business. Gregory, whatever kind of a leader he had been, was apparently a dog-hating asshole and had banned their sweet girl from the house. It worked so well that she refused to set foot inside, just stood in the doorway whining quietly as they went inside.

She was all over Daryl as soon as she saw him, racing around him in tight circles and jumping a little.

“Hey, Maisie,” Paul said to one of the children, “I heard you were looking after Lou while I was gone. Thank you.”

“I fed her every day, Mr. Jesus,” Maisie said proudly.

 _Mr. Jesus,_ Daryl thought, and rolled his eyes. Paul thanked her  again solemnly, then said he’d bring her back something nice from the new settlement before saying good night.

“Got a new fan club, I see,” Daryl muttered as they walked toward Paul’s trailer.

Paul chuckled, leaning down to pat their dog’s head. “Harlan calls her our therapy dog. Um. This is me,” Paul said a little shyly when they reached the last trailer, “Not quite as nice as your house. But it’s just me and Lou, so. It works.”

“Gonna invite me in?”

“I dunno, might make you sleep in the big house with everyone else,” he said as he mounted the steps and opened the door.

“Asshole,” Daryl muttered, following him inside. Paul clicked on a light and Daryl got a look at the place Paul’d had been calling home for more than a year.

It could have fit into their living room back in Athens. Despite that it came across as cozy, nowhere near as stark as his apartment in Athens had been before Daryl crashed into his life. Dividing the room was a small table with few chairs. On one end of the room was a threadbare couch even uglier than the one Paul fished out of a dumpster. He wondered if it was equally as uncomfortable, he’d spent so many nights on that couch whenever he’d crash at Paul’s place after going out for beers. Later they’d even fucked on it a few times before it finally went back into the dumpster where it belonged. Above the couch nailed into the walls were rough, handmade sconces with melted down candles. Daryl felt his lips curve into a smile, and again when he saw the piles of books on the floor.

The opposite side from the couch was a narrow bed. Next to it was a rough wood nightstand with a lantern balanced on top, and next the lantern a framed photograph. Daryl’s throat tightened, and he moved over to take a look. It was the picture of himself of course, the one Paul had cooly admitted to killing four men over. Daryl could see the rips that had been carefully taped together. It was the last thing Paul would see when he went to bed at night and the first thing he’d see when he woke up. Daryl wondered how he could’ve stood it.

He heard the uneven click of Lou’s nails before she jumped up into the bed, stretching out to lick his face.

“Down,” Daryl said, snapping his fingers. She lowered her ears and curled in on herself, “Don’t pull that shit on me. _Down._ ” She let out a pouty _woof_ and dropped to the floor.

“Here, girl,” Paul said. He was across the room next to the couch. He smacked one hand against the cushions and waved a worn down bit of antler in her direction. “Come lay down.”

Lou grumbled a little more but trotted over obediently, snatching the antler out of Paul’s hand. She jumped up on the couch and started gnawing on her antler, teeth crunching.

“Can’t believe you let her chew on them things,” Daryl said. Paul was forever chasing her down when she would snap up any antlers from one of Daryl’s kills, saying she could break her teeth.

Paul lowered his eyes to the floor, “There’s not much else. And. Um. They reminded me of you.”

Daryl’s heart clenched, “Hey. C’mere.”

Paul was still a few feet away when Daryl stepped forward, took his face in his hands and tilted it upward, “It’s gonna be ok,” he said confidently. “These Saviors ain’t shit, we’ll take ‘em out. All of us together.” He punctuated this statement with a kiss. He felt on fire, blood coursing through him and feeling like he could take on anything. He slid his arms around Paul’s neck, opening his mouth to kiss him harder. What he’d meant to be comforting was turning into something else, a spark to tinder that started burning between them.

He felt Paul’s hand on his chest then, pushing firmly at the same time the other man took a step back, breathing heavily. Paul’s lips were red and shiny and swollen from kissing. “Wait,” he panted out, then dropped his eyes to the floor. “Um. Before we do anything, and especially if I’m taking all of you to the Kingdom later…” he swallowed, and his voice was a whisper when he continued, “there’s something I’ve got to tell you, and you aren’t going to like it.”

Daryl stared at him, the tense posture of his shoulders and felt his stomach plummet. He remembered that time years ago when Paul confessed he’d “hooked up” with that douchebag in Chicago and his douchebag boyfriend. How when Paul admitted it Daryl had been confused for a few moments, not sure what he meant. _I think you should know. I’ve got something to tell you._ Daryl let out an unsteady breath, “You fucked someone else.”

Paul flinched, and nodded.

“Who is he?” Daryl heard himself ask.

Paul raised his eyes and kept them locked with Daryl’s own as he said, “Just a guy I met there. It wasn’t serious, and it’s…” he waved a vague hand in the air, “It didn’t last long.”

“You didn’t even get his name?” Daryl snapped out, the wave of anger followed by an even stronger wave of guilt.

Paul flinched again and he blinked rapidly, “His name’s Daniel. Does it matter?”

Daryl looked away from him, jaw muscle working, emotions rolling in his chest. Anger was the main one, a pure, savage, _irrational_ anger. He felt his fingers curl into fists. He remembered talking to Rick once about Lori and Shane, how he thought he wouldn’t care if Paul fucked everything with a dick if he could just have him back. That was still true, he _knew_ he was being unfair. They’d had so many fucking arguments because of this, because Daryl just couldn’t _stand_ the thought of other guys putting their hands on Paul. “No,” he growled out, still looking away, “I don’t suppose it does.” He turned his head further and saw Lou on the couch. She had stopped chewing on her antler and was staring at them. She could almost always tell when they were pissed off at each other, always picked up on any undercurrent of tension.

“I’m sorry,” Paul said quietly, then, “I should have told you sooner. I didn’t know how, and at first…well, at first I just forgot about him.”

“You _forgot?”_ Daryl blurted out, jerking his head back to look at Paul’s face.

Paul snorted, “Yeah, I did. Or more…he never mattered much to me anyway, and when you and me…” his voice trailed off and Daryl thought Paul was going to start crying again. It just made him angrier; he’d gone from never seeing Paul cry even _once_ to see him doing it constantly. Not angry at Paul, angry at…fuck, he didn’t know what. Himself for his cowardice causing them to get separated in the first place? Those pricks that held him prisoner for _weeks_ with the intention of killing him? The entire fucking world for ending? He didn’t know.

Paul wasn’t finished, he recovered enough to whisper, “Fucking hell, Daryl. Finding out you were alive made me stop caring about a lot of things.”

Daryl couldn’t speak at first, still angry, angry at himself for _being_ angry. His mind kept going back to that conversation with Rick over a year ago, thinking he wouldn’t care how many people Paul had fucked so long as he could have him back. _We’re both alive, that’s all that matters._ Daryl knew that, was overwhelmed with gratitude for it, but he still couldn’t make this feeling go away. Couldn’t stop thinking of Paul with this guy, in his mind this Daniel guy looked a bit like Tim the Bloodsucking Lawyer. Daryl wanted to hit something, that prick Daniel would do for a start. _We’re both alive,_ he forced himself to think again, _that’s all that matters._ He looked at Lou on her couch, she had gone back to gnawing on her antler, trying to hold it in one place with her remaining paw and squirming. “It’s ok,” Daryl gritted out, “I’m not mad.”

Paul burst out laughing and Daryl jerked his head up to face him. “Bullshit, Dixon.”

“You thought I was dead,” Daryl forced himself to say. He was unable to stop a single spiteful thought, _I thought you were dead too but I didn’t fuck someone else._ He hated himself for it immediately, it didn’t fucking _matter._

“Oh yeah,” Paul said quietly, as though he had picked that thought out of Daryl’s mind, “it pisses you off.” He locked eyes with Daryl, challenging him to deny it.

“Fine,” Daryl growled, not looking away and taking a step closer, “It pisses me off.”

Paul took a step closer as well, “Yeah?”

“Yeah. If he was standing here right now I’d fucking kill him.”

“Don’t be mad at him, be mad at me.”

Daryl shook his head stubbornly, and Paul inched closer.They were close enough that Daryl could smell him, could see the widening of his pupils. “I ain’t gonna get mad at you. Not over this. I’m just glad you’re alive.”

“You can be glad I’m alive and be pissed that I fucked someone else. It’s ok to be both. I’m pissed about it too.”

Daryl let out an explosive breath and growled, “Don’t think I can’t tell what you’re trying to do.”

Paul tilted his head slightly, parting his lips, “Yeah? What’s that?”

Daryl’s heart galloped in his chest and he felt his chest tighten. That spark of a few minutes ago was burning hotter than ever, a white hot rush of anger and need and want, making him feel half crazy. Without thinking he lashed out and grabbed Paul by the upper arms. He dug his fingers deep into Paul’s bicep and jerked him close. Paul made a soft noise and his eyes fluttered shut. When they kissed it was _savage,_ Daryl let go of Paul’s arms so he could grab his hair, wrapping his other arm around Paul’s lower back and pinning him close. Paul grabbed him by the shoulders and held on just as tight, it made Daryl feel like a goddamn fireworks factory had exploded in his head. He tightened his fingers in Paul’s hair and yanked his head back, the other man made a noise that was fucking _obscene._ Another careening rocket of emotion, Daryl growled again and started attacking the other man’s neck, digging his teeth in and biting, sucking bruises onto his skin, tilting him back.

Daryl barely registered the thump and click of nails, but it was hard to ignore their dumb dog trying to wiggle between them and whining anxiously. It forced Daryl to come back to himself, and let out a frustrated noise, disentangling a little from Paul. “Damnit girl, I’m not hurting him,” he snapped, then felt a guilty pang. He wasn’t exactly being gentle. Fuck, his emotions were too all over the place. He stepped back from Paul, who stood there stunned, lips parted and hair wild.

“We probably shouldn’t do this now,” Daryl gritted out.

“I can put her outside,” Paul said quickly.

“I ain’t kickin’ our dog out!” Daryl shot back.

“We kicked her out back home!” Paul protested.

“That’s different,” Daryl said. He was having trouble catching his breath, and he pointedly turned his head away, looking at Paul made it worse. The urge to grab him and throw him on the bed was still there, tamped down for now but ready to explode. “We shouldn’t be doin’ this now anyway,” he repeated.

“Why not?” Paul challenged.

“Because I’m _pissed off_!” Daryl half-shouted at him, “And because we need to rest, and because our dog is freaked out.”

Paul let out a hiss and stomped over to the shitty couch and started pulling the cushions off.

“What the hell are you doing?” Daryl said.

Paul ignored him, what he was doing was obvious—setting up the cushions like a kid building a fort. He snapped his fingers and said, “Lou! Get over here.”

She trotted over reluctantly, and Paul walled her in with another cushion. He tossed her antler inside and said, “Quiet!” Then he came and stood in front of Daryl, face white and jaw tight.

“That’s not going to keep her quiet—“

“We’ve had to hide from the dead a hundred times, she won’t budge.”

“I’m still pissed off,” Daryl shot back.

“So what?”

“You ain’t gotta prove nothing to me,” Daryl shot back.

“It’s not about proving anything,” Paul snapped, “I want you, you seemed eager enough before I told you about Daniel—“

Fuck, just the sound of his name made Daryl breathless with anger, “Fuck you, don’t pull this shit—“

“I don’t need you holding back out of some—“

“You’re one to talk ‘bout _holding back—“_

They’d some how ended up in each other’s faces, less than an inch apart but not touching. _Fuck it,_ flashed through Daryl’s mind before he surged forward, grabbing the other man and shoving him, marching him backward to the bed and knocking him down against the mattress. Daryl stood over him, breathing hard. Paul was pushed down diagonally across the bed, legs hanging off and hand curled up by his face. He was still wearing his gloves, his shirt had a few buttons missing, something Daryl didn’t remember doing. Paul pushed himself up on his elbows, chest heaving, skin flushed and shiny.

Daryl leaned over him and took his clothes off with the brutal efficiency of peeling fruit. His own clothes came off just as fast, he’d just pushed his pants down to the floor when Paul grabbed his dick and squeezed.

“ _Fuck,”_ Daryl gasped out, letting Paul drag him into bed by the dick. Then they were a tangle of arms and legs, mouths wet and open and hands everywhere. Paul grabbed him by the hair and yanked him close, growling, _“Fuck me,_ ” into his ear.

Daryl was busy rutting against him, “Ain’t got nothing,” he panted out.

“Here, wait—“ Paul said, squirming underneath him and reaching out for the nightstand by his bed. He opened the drawer and fumbled blindly around before emerging with a tube that he shoved in Daryl’s hand, “Here.”

Daryl stared at it, a little white tube with "Surgilube" printed in blue letters. Something penetrated his fog of lust, “Did you have him _here?”_ he choked out.

Paul blinked at him. “What? Of course I didn’t, I liked being able to leave. This was just for me, I stole it from the medical trailer.”

 _I liked being able to leave,_ Daryl thought. _That’s not me, I’m not a leader._ Despite his roiling emotions Daryl could sense something, some connection he hadn’t made yet, just on the corner of his thoughts. Paul nipped his shoulder, snapping him out of it, “Are you going to do anything with that?” Something in his voice made Daryl hesitate, tamped down his whirling mix of anger and jealousy and pure _want_.

 _He sounds afraid,_ Daryl thought. “Hey,” he choked out, “I’m not mad at you, you know I’m not.”

“You’re not very convincing, I told you it’s ok—“

“ _No,”_ Daryl protested, “I’m mad, but not at you, I need you to know—“

Paul interrupted this speech by grabbing him by the hair and tugging him down for a kiss, one that was rough and seemed _designed_ to rile Daryl up. He had to respond, had to grab back, had roll his body so he could pin Paul down. They broke apart and Paul panted in his ear, “I know, it’s ok,” he dragged his nails down Daryl’s back, “I want it like this, _please—“_

Daryl prepped him in the most perfunctory of ways, both of them lying on their sides grinding against each other and kissing, Paul with one leg hiked up, foot against Daryl’s hip. Daryl slid his hand down between Paul’s legs and thrust his fingers in roughly, working them in and out. The fingers of the other hand were tangled in Paul’s hair, when Daryl shoved his fingers inside he tightened his grip in Paul’s hair and jerked his head back, digging his teeth into the soft skin of Paul’s neck. The other man was moaning things like _yes, fuck, give it to me, I want you so much._

Daryl held out for as long as he could before pushing himself up onto his haunches. He grabbed Paul by the ankles and jerked him forward, knocking him flat on his back. Pulled the other man’s hips up onto his lap, grabbed one of Paul’s ankles and slung it over his shoulder the other around his waist.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Are you seriously asking me that right n- _oh,”_ Paul trailed off into a low moan, because as soon as he started giving his smartass reply Daryl rolled his hips and started pushing in. Just a little at a time, determined to be gentle at least for now, to fight the urge to surge forward and shatter.Watching the changes on Paul’s face—eyes wide and staring into Daryl’s, lips going slack to tight, teeth worrying the lower one, eyes squeezing shut, dark red flush working its way up his chest and neck.

“Fuck,” Daryl gasped out. Almost two fucking years since he’d seen Paul like this, there was so much he’d forgotten that came crashing back to him. He leaned forward and forced himself all the way in with a final thrust that made Paul convulse beneath him, one hand flailing to grab the sheets and the other at Daryl’s thigh. His neck arched back and he cried out.

“Fucking…be…quiet,” Daryl panted, “Dog’ll go nuts and the who place’ll come running…”

“I don’t care,” Paul groaned, “Don’t stop, _please.”_

The neediness in his voice made Daryl shiver. He leaned forward until he was bracing himself up by his hands, bearing down on Paul, who was squirming and whimpering beneath him. Paul cried out again when Daryl started moving, going slow, trying to go back to gentle. Paul made a noise that was more frustration than pleasure and grabbed him by the hips, jerking him forward roughly while arcing his own hips at the same time. Daryl felt the other man’s nails bite into the skin of his lower back, hard enough he thought it might have drawn blood.

After that Daryl’s will broke and he started giving it to Paul how he wanted, rough and fast. Beneath him Paul was a writhing, feral tangle that Daryl could barely control, sweeping him away like the current of a riptide. _Like a wild animal._ Daryl had almost forgotten what Paul had told him, about the other guy he’d been with. Daryl wondered if that piece of shit had fucked Paul like this, heard him growl and bark not to stop. He hooked Paul’s left knee under his right elbow, bent it forward to Paul’s chest while bearing down, taking full advantage of his size and weight to hold Paul still, chest to chest and just _fucking_ him. He could feel orgasm building, tightening his muscles and he clenched his teeth, fighting against it. Then Paul made that noise deep in his chest, that gasping cry he made right before he came. Daryl felt the warm splash of it against his belly and chest and he was done for.

Afterward he collapsed like he’d been struck dead. Paul let out a grunt as Daryl knocked the wind out of him. He didn’t try to make Daryl move, though, just slid his arms around Daryl’s back and held him tight. They lay in bed in a wet tangle of bone and muscle. 

“Feel better?” Paul asked in a shaky voice.

“A little,” Daryl admitted.

“We can do this again,” Paul said, “As many times as you need. Just give me a bit to recover.”

It took Daryl a few minutes before he realized that Paul was crying. Guilt pierced him, he pushed himself up so he could get a look at the other man’s face, “Paul? Are you ok? Did I hurt—“

Paul’s eyes squeezed shut and his arm tightened around Daryl’s neck to hold him in place, “Don’t be an ass,” he said, “This is just what I fucking do now, apparently.”

“You’re sure—“

Paul bit his earlobe, “I’m _fine.”_

 _Fine._ Good lord, but Daryl still hated to hear that word come out of Paul’s mouth. But he was exhausted and too tired to care, just kissed him tenderly for a few minutes, until he felt some of the tension leave Paul’s body.

The bed was narrow, meant for one person, so Daryl stayed sprawled out on top of Paul, just shifted his weight so he wasn’t crushing him.

“Mmmm,” Paul said, tangling his fingers in Daryl’s hair. There was a soft whine from Lou’s pillow fort, and Paul groaned and said, “Alright girl, you can come out. Lou! Come here, girl.”

The pillow fort explode and Lou trotted over to the bed, jumping up and putting her paw on the edge of the mattress and leaning in to lick at their faces.

“Damn dog,” Daryl grumbled, “lay down, we ain’t got room for you in here.”

Lou apparently didn’t agree, because the next moment she was climbing into the bed and curling up against the back of his legs. Paul laughed. “Should’ve left her with Maisie, but she’d pine for us.”

“Mmm hmm,” Daryl grumbled. He was starting to doze off, despite the weight of dog against his legs. They really should do at least a little washing up, they were sticky with sweat and come and Daryl at least was going to have dog hair stuck to his skin in the morning. But fuck, he was tired. Little Miss Maisie, who called Paul _Mr._ Jesus, could watch Lou while they got washed up.

He was just about to doze off when that nagging thought he’d had earlier came to him. Paul saying he liked being able to leave. Never had that guy _Daniel_ here.

When he finally made the connection he snapped wide awake.

Not a single person at Hilltop had called him “Paul”, Daryl realized. Not even Dr. Carson, who seemed pretty friendly with him. _I ask people what they prefer,_ Paul had said. No one here preferred calling him Paul. Daryl pushed himself up on his elbows again, staring down at Paul’s face. He looked like he’d been on the verge of dozing off but his eyes flickered open at Daryl’s movement.

“Did he call you ‘Jesus’?” Daryl didn’t have to say who he was talking about. Paul looked away from him, throat working. Daryl felt like an ass, bringing that shit stain up, inviting him into their bed as though he fucking mattered at all. But he needed to know.

“At first, yeah,” Paul finally said, “But not while we were…” he swallowed, “We didn’t talk much.”

 _We didn’t talk much._ Daryl stared at Paul long enough that the other man dropped his eyes and shifted uncomfortably beneath him. Daryl had been lonely, Daryl had missed the hell out of Paul. But he’d had _people_ ; more than just people, but ones he _loved,_ fiercely. He thought of Merle and Beth and Tyrese and all the others who hadn’t made it this far, how it hurt to lose them. How much it had hurt when he thought he’d lost Carol and Rick and everyone else back at the prison. He’d found them again, though. Rick had looked him in the eye and called Daryl his brother. He thought of those long days on the road with Michonne, of how they barely talked but seemed to say so much to each other. Of Carol making sure he ate and took care of himself. Of how he and Glenn went on runs to find people, how he’d tease the kid about Maggie.

Paul hadn’t had anything like that. Paul had a guy who called him Jesus except when sucking his dick. He remembered back in Athens, Paul talking about spending Christmas in Key West fucking “so many guys he lost count”.

“You were lonely,” Daryl blurted out. He sounded like a fucking idiot, and not for the first time he wished he had a better way with words, but he’d never been good at telling Paul how he felt.

“I mean, yeah,” Paul replied, sounding confused at why this revelation had staggered Daryl.

“Listen,” Daryl said, “You gotta promise me somethin’, ok? Anything happens to me you don’t run. These people, they’re my family, and they’re yours now too. They’ll look after you.”

“I don’t really need looking after,” Paul said lightly.

Daryl thought of Rick and Michonne. How Rick had asked her to be part of the prison council, to _stay._ How she left anyway, and kept leaving. How Rick would worry over her, and ask Daryl if he she’d be ok. He shook his head, “You do. So do I. We all do, we can’t do things on our own, not no more. Somethin’ happens to me, promise me you’ll let Rick and the others take care of you.”

“If something happens to you it will be over my dead body, so this is a pointless conversation,” Paul said, squirming beneath him. If Daryl weren’t still on top of him holding him down Paul would have rolled on his side so he was facing away from him. As it was he had just turned his head.

“Hey, look at me,” Daryl said, his words a growl. Paul squeezed his eyes shut, “Damnit Paul, fucking look at me.”

Paul took in a deep, shuddery breath, and with his eyes squeezed shut, “Don’t. I can’t do it again.”

“You can,” Daryl insisted, then repeated, “promise me.”

Paul opened his eyes and looked at him then. They were damp but he wasn’t crying. He didn’t say anything, and Daryl shifted so his weight was on one elbow so he could stroke Paul’s face, thumb tracing his cheekbone. “Ok,” he whispered, giving a little nod, “I promise.”

He didn’t sound particularly sincere, but for now it would have to do.


End file.
